"Outta the way, Tudgeman!"
"Oh, uh, right, sorry," Larry said, his eyes quickly darting to the floor. He walked quickly, keeping his gaze fixated on the white linolium floors, riddled with scuff marks and stains. This was the safest way to go. As long as he didn't look up, and especially didn't make eye contact, he wouldn't have to suffer the throbbing pain of a dirty look or, for that matter, no look at all. After years of being made fun of, or simply ignored, he hid the pain and fell back into the stereotype he had been forced to fill. Taking quick steps and making absolutely sure he wouldn't run into anyone else, Larry made it to his locker safely. Now, he rushed to gather his books and papers and be the first one in class. This was the best way, because he was able to sit down somewhere inconspicuous and stick his nose in a book. Greeting the teacher with a slight nod of his head, Larry found an empty seat, off to the side and sat down as quickly as possible. He decided today he would just pretend to be studying the textbook, even though he was fully prepared for the test. Silently unzipping his backpack, in an attempt not to disturb his non existent classmates, Larry pulled out a few sheets of paper and a pencil. Positioning his book so that no one could see what he was writing, Larry began to scribble out a poem on one of the sheets of paper:
There he sits, the little boy
Alone again, in the dark
Watching the life that was destroyed
As on that fatal road he embarks
Memories whisper in the trees
A silent wind, coloured in sorrow
He knows this is a hidden breeze
And it will succumb to new pain tomorrow
He gently dips into the river
Eying it's jovial ebb with great distain
Knowing his life will never deliver
How quickly the current runs through his veins
Release the current, release the flow
In this darkened state, he is faint of heart
Realizing it is time to go
He'll always be a world apart.
The thick black scribbles of his pencil had strayed slightly on some words, as Larry leaned back to re-read his nearly illegible work. Folding it in half he stuffed it into the inside cover of his book and sighed heavily, leaning futher into his seat. There would be a pop quiz today. Larry could tell this by something his teacher did with her eyebrows. Little meaningless things were easy to notice when you had no friends.
Sure enough, like clockwork, there had been a quiz. It was quite long but a very simple task for Larry. Tapping his pencil methodically against the side of his desk, he sat, otherwise motionless, his crystal blue eyes glancing all around. An old neighbor of his had once told him that he had the saddest eyes she'd ever seen. Her name was "Madame Joliene" and she was a fortune teller. She had long red hair that stretched town her back and broke off into stringy split ends, and she wore oversized black dresses with at least five to eight colourful Mardis Gras type beads. Her fingers were long and slender and covered in massive silver rings. Larry remembered this because she touched him when she said he had sad eyes, and he remembered the feel of her ice cold rings pressing against his sallow skin. In some way, he could still see the place in which she touched his arm. It seemed to glow with silver light, as if she'd left some sort of scar. He often felt people had left these sort of scars on him, from touching him, but always quickly brushed thoughts like these away for fear of insanity.
The bell rang. It's angry din resounded through the classroom for what seemed like an eternity. Larry, dashed out with his things, determined to be the first one out. While everyone was gathering up their things and complaining about the pop quiz, Larry was already halfway to his locker, and no one noticed. He reached the classroom incredibly early today, but was surprised to find that, right as he sat down, another person walked it. It was Lizzie McGuire. She seemed a bit out of breath and she was holding something. It was a folded up piece of notebook paper. The thick black pencil lines could be seen through the paper. Larry looked through his book, to find, in horror, his poem was missing.
"Whew, you're so fast Larry!" She gave him a half smile as she reached his desk. "Here," she said, handing him the paper, "I didn't know you wrote poetry!"
The sound of Larry's heart sinking could be heard in his voice. "What? Oh, uh, that. Yeah. That's not mine. I mean, it is mine, but I didn't write it. I, uh, had to copy it from a book for a class project."
"Oh," Lizzie said looking away. "Well, it's really good. Um, see ya."
"Bye," Larry said softly, looking towards the ground. Hastily he shoved the poem into his notebook and cursed himself for being so careless. Someone had noticed his existence today. He was not invisible. He was still here. Feeling completely alone, he opened his math book and read Chapter 10, in an attempt to cover over the pain inside.
"Oh, uh, right, sorry," Larry said, his eyes quickly darting to the floor. He walked quickly, keeping his gaze fixated on the white linolium floors, riddled with scuff marks and stains. This was the safest way to go. As long as he didn't look up, and especially didn't make eye contact, he wouldn't have to suffer the throbbing pain of a dirty look or, for that matter, no look at all. After years of being made fun of, or simply ignored, he hid the pain and fell back into the stereotype he had been forced to fill. Taking quick steps and making absolutely sure he wouldn't run into anyone else, Larry made it to his locker safely. Now, he rushed to gather his books and papers and be the first one in class. This was the best way, because he was able to sit down somewhere inconspicuous and stick his nose in a book. Greeting the teacher with a slight nod of his head, Larry found an empty seat, off to the side and sat down as quickly as possible. He decided today he would just pretend to be studying the textbook, even though he was fully prepared for the test. Silently unzipping his backpack, in an attempt not to disturb his non existent classmates, Larry pulled out a few sheets of paper and a pencil. Positioning his book so that no one could see what he was writing, Larry began to scribble out a poem on one of the sheets of paper:
There he sits, the little boy
Alone again, in the dark
Watching the life that was destroyed
As on that fatal road he embarks
Memories whisper in the trees
A silent wind, coloured in sorrow
He knows this is a hidden breeze
And it will succumb to new pain tomorrow
He gently dips into the river
Eying it's jovial ebb with great distain
Knowing his life will never deliver
How quickly the current runs through his veins
Release the current, release the flow
In this darkened state, he is faint of heart
Realizing it is time to go
He'll always be a world apart.
The thick black scribbles of his pencil had strayed slightly on some words, as Larry leaned back to re-read his nearly illegible work. Folding it in half he stuffed it into the inside cover of his book and sighed heavily, leaning futher into his seat. There would be a pop quiz today. Larry could tell this by something his teacher did with her eyebrows. Little meaningless things were easy to notice when you had no friends.
Sure enough, like clockwork, there had been a quiz. It was quite long but a very simple task for Larry. Tapping his pencil methodically against the side of his desk, he sat, otherwise motionless, his crystal blue eyes glancing all around. An old neighbor of his had once told him that he had the saddest eyes she'd ever seen. Her name was "Madame Joliene" and she was a fortune teller. She had long red hair that stretched town her back and broke off into stringy split ends, and she wore oversized black dresses with at least five to eight colourful Mardis Gras type beads. Her fingers were long and slender and covered in massive silver rings. Larry remembered this because she touched him when she said he had sad eyes, and he remembered the feel of her ice cold rings pressing against his sallow skin. In some way, he could still see the place in which she touched his arm. It seemed to glow with silver light, as if she'd left some sort of scar. He often felt people had left these sort of scars on him, from touching him, but always quickly brushed thoughts like these away for fear of insanity.
The bell rang. It's angry din resounded through the classroom for what seemed like an eternity. Larry, dashed out with his things, determined to be the first one out. While everyone was gathering up their things and complaining about the pop quiz, Larry was already halfway to his locker, and no one noticed. He reached the classroom incredibly early today, but was surprised to find that, right as he sat down, another person walked it. It was Lizzie McGuire. She seemed a bit out of breath and she was holding something. It was a folded up piece of notebook paper. The thick black pencil lines could be seen through the paper. Larry looked through his book, to find, in horror, his poem was missing.
"Whew, you're so fast Larry!" She gave him a half smile as she reached his desk. "Here," she said, handing him the paper, "I didn't know you wrote poetry!"
The sound of Larry's heart sinking could be heard in his voice. "What? Oh, uh, that. Yeah. That's not mine. I mean, it is mine, but I didn't write it. I, uh, had to copy it from a book for a class project."
"Oh," Lizzie said looking away. "Well, it's really good. Um, see ya."
"Bye," Larry said softly, looking towards the ground. Hastily he shoved the poem into his notebook and cursed himself for being so careless. Someone had noticed his existence today. He was not invisible. He was still here. Feeling completely alone, he opened his math book and read Chapter 10, in an attempt to cover over the pain inside.