Jackson Törött. That's my name. This is my story.
I would tell you about the previous sixteen years of my life. How my dad was murdered when I was young. How my mom prefers my brother over me. How that same younger brother has gone to a boarding school for above average kids. But that's just too boring. I've done this countless times. Replaying my first sixteen years. Replaying sixteen years of hell.
I would tell you about how I don't know at this point. It's almost as if there's nothing inside of me. I can't feel anything. Though no one can tell; I hide it far too well. I'm broken, but aren't we all?
It's my sixteenth birthday today. I'm currently watching a few "freaks" in my school get bullied. No one knows I exist, so I'm safe for now. Though I wouldn't mind a human interaction for once. Even if it means getting beaten up for it.
I walk into the biology classroom. There's one seat left, next to the golden girl of my class, Samantha Holdry. I sit down, waiting for the teacher to arrive.
"Hello," I look over. Samantha's speaking to me.
"Um, hi," I say, grasping for words. I don't talk to others that often.
"Is there any chance you have a pencil I could borrow?" She asks.
I scramble through my bag, looking for an extra one. I find an old wooden pencil, and lay it across her outstretched hand.
"Thank you. I'll make sure to return it."
"Keep it, please," I offer. She nods her head, turning to the front of the classroom.
As the teacher introduces the lesson for the day, I glance around the room. I watch the other students, wondering what each of their stories are. Wondering what each of them are going through. Wondering what each of them are thinking right now. Some of them might be paying attention to the lesson. Some might be thinking of ways to solve a problem that probably won't matter come next week. Some might be doing exactly what I am. Questioning the same things.
This is when the teacher asks a question, "Where does Glycolysis occur?"
Cytoplasm. That's the answer. Samantha is called on.
"Mitochondria," She answers.
"Sorry, Miss Holdry, that's incorrect,"
Samantha takes the pencil I gave her, pulls up her skirt, and stabs the sharpened end into her thigh. I seem to be the only one who's noticed. Everyone else is staring into space. I'm not surprised. I've seen her do this many other times. I've never felt the need to tell someone about it. What's the point? It's her choice. It's all a choice, isn't it? It's a choice to keep living. It's a choice to not feel. Some people don't want to feel. If they do, everything they've been holding in comes out in a waterfall of emotions.
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