Room 23

I read a poem once (can’t remember who made it) about a boy, or maybe it was girl, who lost their memories and dedicated every single minute of every single day trying to regain those memories. Maybe they did or maybe they didn’t, I can’t remember for it was many years ago. But I remember, holding that piece of paper in my hands and thinking: how stupid was that person? Could that person not realize that they were given a chance, a new leaf, a new page, an opportunity! Although I also think that the past may one day catch up with him or her, yet at that time I only thought of that person as a fool who closed their eyes to beauty.

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My eyes stare blankly at the rushing scenery through the window of the bus. I don’t understand why I do it; it’s the same scenery that I’ve seen every morning and afternoon since riding this vehicle. Yet here I am, unable to tear my gaze from the repetitive sight. Perhaps it’s just human nature to follow a cycle; however, this cycle makes me want to slit my throat and die! I feel so caged, so chained, so fucking limited in this world! By now I can tell time without having a watch; things happen that are repeated at a certain time, which my brain has recognized.

Seven o four. The bus stops at the annex to drop freshmen off. Seven o six. The freshmen are allowed to be off the bus and we make our way to school. Then at seven twelve we’re at the main building and allowed to go inside at seven fifteen. After that, at seven thirty a bell rings to remind students to be inside the school. Between that and seven forty, students have the time to do whatever they want. When the seven forty bell rings students have five minutes to get to class. It’s a cycle.

Camille waves at me as I step off the bus and I wave back. My eyes scan the surroundings, zoning in on that small corner with my friends. Kaitlyn’s not there, so it’s probably an A day. I look down on my watch as I move forward seeing that the date is a Thursday; I have poetry club today. Hopefully, daddy remembers I need to be picked up.

“Hey Q,” Suzy greets, gazing into my eyes. “Did you do the homework on chapter 12?”

“Which one?” I ask bouncing slightly on my toes to keep warmth circulating through my body. “Vocab or outline?”

She taps her chin in thought. “mmm...outline.” she replies. “I’ve done most of it, except the last one. I couldn’t find anything about it. So can I see it?”

“Sure,” I reply walking inside the school as the teachers open the door. “I’m going to library.”

“I have to go to my locker first.” She tells me. “I’ll see you there.” and we part only to meet again at the library.  

After the time in the library my day was spent with me staring at the board and taking down notes. I wanted to go to club faster, but time seems to move slower at times like these. Finally at two twenty-five the bell rings and I rush out of class.

The hallways are filled with chattering students and I fight my way against the tide of people. They were eager to get out, while I wanted to stay. My nose crinkled as I went past a particular person as the smell of sweat waifs through my nose. Do these people not know what soap is? Then another thought went in my head which I shook off vehemently. I know this place is disgusting, but please let me keep a hope that people have some decency.

Passing the breezeway I notice that mass of people slowly dwindled down to single digits. It didn’t matter though as I had poetry club matters to attend to. My smile widened as I spotted room twenty three just lurking beyond the corner. Poetry normally starts at three so hardly anyone would be in there. This thought had me slowing my steps to take some more time, but I really do want to start poetry now.

When I entered the room my eyes took note of a tall african-american boy. He stood to one side both hands in his pockets swaying side to side and it brought a smile to my face.