[a/n; excuse my english, please correct me if there are any mistakes)
I ran through the hallways, not exactly knowing what my destination was. I was so concentrated on running, that I almost forgot why.
Breathe in, run.
Breathe out, run.
Even those simple tasks were overwhelming. Basically everything was.
But when I stood in front of the green colored door, it came back to my mind like a hurricane, which made breathing and running more simple than anything.
It was my first day at school and I was late. I didn't know when the bus came, so I missed it. I never was good at planning things, I mean I could've looked up when the bus usually comes, but I didn't.
Blame it on my laziness or the fact that I spent my morning with staring at the ceiling, questioning my whole bloody worthless life.
There was no better start in my new life, than coming too late. Wasn't that a great metaphor for the future? Messed up and too late.
I gasped, I had to enter the classroom and introduce myself. I had to talk. I had to open my mouth and I had to let words come out, simple words.
But I wouldn't talk. I couldn't talk.
It's called selective mutism, even though I never really selected it. It just happened one dark, staring at the ceiling night.
There was no one who I could have talked to, so why was I talking at all?
I felt my anxiety growing and before I could have decided to just run back home, I knocked at the door. A male voice asked me to enter and I still thought about fleeing, like an antelope in the sight of a lion , but - oh what a coincidence - it was too late for that.
My heart skipped a beat, when I entered the familiar place called classroom. Brown, old tables and chairs. A board covered in chalk dust and eyes, way too many eyes.
There was that feeling that I knew way too good. It was fear.
I expected comments on my black shirt, my black jacket and my same colored skinny jeans. Where were the "nice haircut" yells or the paper balls hitting my head? I was shaking, but I crossed my arms, tightening the grasp to stop my hands from shivering.
This time it had to be different, but I knew it wouldn't. This time I should just mind my business. No befriending with others, who could see how fucked up I was after a while and then leave. I was sick of bullying, sick of fake friends and tears rushing down my ugly face.
I still stood in the doorway, biting and licking my lip, already feeling the bitter metallic taste on my tongue.
Average people would say something like; 'Sorry that I'm late, my name is Dan'
But I wasn't average.
I kept my mouth shut.
The teacher stared at me, so did the students. I wanted to scream. What do you do in such a situation if you're not talking?
My instinct shouted run but even if I tried, I was frozen.
"You must be the new one, Daniel right?" I nodded. "Then welcome at our school! I'm Mr Fadarral, you can sit next to Philip" he pointed at a light skinned boy with a black fringe. I nodded again, still heavily breathing from my sprint.
It's fine Dan, nobody laughed.
I sat down, relieved that I didn't have to talk. "Hi Daniel, I'm Phil" the boy turned towards me. He looked full enthusiastic.
A wide smile was on his milky face, framed by pitch black hair in contrast to his intense blue eyes I dared to stare at.
I panicked again.
Should I ignore him?
That would have probably made everything worse, even if this Phil guy didn't seem like a bully. He would have thought that I'm a awkward loser and -
"Huh? Are you alright?" he asked. And I nodded as a yes, not making eye contact. Totally fine.
"So, where do you come from?"
I wanted him to stop talking to me, but I couldn't. If I told him that I was selective mute, he would have laughed. Everyone did.
Who selects to be mute?
Wtf you're so weird.
I swallowed, as I grabbed a pencil and my notebook, which I always carried around with me. Shakily I wrote down six letters, still unsure if I made the right the decision.
'I'm mute'
Philip looked at my bad handwriting and his eyes widened.
Weirdo.
Freak.
"Mute? You can't talk?"
I shook my head.
You ruined it Dan.
"Since birth?"
I thought a second before I answered.
I wasn't born mute, I stopped talking when I was 14. I bit my lip again, the metallic taste on my tongue.
Who chooses to be mute?
I shouldn't have done that, but I did it.
I nodded.
How should he have known I was lying? He couldn't tell, he didn't know me.
And I thought that would've been our last conversation.