waterfall
pouring
tears.
I clutch the crumpled piece of paper in both hands. My fingers have turned to talons, desperate and possessive. It's taken me nearly all night to write those three words, even with my younger brother's patience.
She probably won't like it, I remind myself. My teacher never likes anything I write, anyway—only looks at it with scorching eyes. I'm sure she is thinking of the fat, red 'F' she will place there. I have this vision of her in her lair—dark and dragon-like—laughing maniacally as she stamps her rejection onto my paper.
I swing myself over the fence, letting momentum land me where I need to be. My feet touch ground this time—no face plant into the earth. The school is in front of me. Dark and grey as always. My heart is pounding already as I search for Them. They are nowhere to be seen, but my chest is still fluttering like a bird's wild wings.
I run to the door of the school, and pull it open. It is glass, so I know that the hallway will be clear for me. Still, an image of Derrick Ivas and his gang, hiding like vampires behind the no-longer transparent glass never fails to find me. I am still high on adreline, fear clutching at my throat as I run up the stairway to my dormitory.
It is empty. My roommate must me at breakfast by now. Maybe if I am fast enough, I can get there before class. But no time to worry about that. I grab at my books, and throw them into a half-pile by my door, then hurry into my uniform. Then, snatching up my books again, I run out of the door. My foot catches on the frame, and I fall face-down onto the floor, my books skidding across the floor. Someone watching from their doorway sniggers. I shoot them a death-glare, but it doesn't have its usual effect here in school.
I collect my books again, face burning from embarrassment and the insults pouring from the mouth of my schoolmate. But reaction is not the best path here—I learned pretty fast that people fight differently here. My movement can't catch up to their strange, foreign reflexes.
I am in class now. The paper is still in my hands. I can almost feel it breathing, life amongst the dead wood of my desk, the still metal of it's legs. My classmates are in their own worlds now. Or at least the one that isn't mind. I can feel the hostility. You are not welcome here, their silence says. And I am not.
Now the teacher is asking for our homework. "Class, please take out the poems you completed yesterday." And then there is a flurry of movement, people searching through their desks, whispering to each other. "I didn't finish mine!" the girl beside me whispers to her friend. I feel a surge of pride. Something I have done that she is not, despite her long, wavy-blonde hair, her picture-perfect cheerleader's body.
The teacher is coming around, collecting. She gives a gentle warning to cheerleader-girl, but she doesn't really seem to mind. Of course she wouldn't. Cheerleader-girl is perfect.
She stops at my desk, looking with distaste at the crushed lined paper I've tried to flatten against my desk. She detests the paper, and it's hardly-legible writing. It looks like it belongs in kindergarten, she must be thinking. But it's done.
"Kai, this was supposed to be typed." She says sharply. I look down. I've almost forgotten that. But it happens every time we have an assignment—I'd think she'd remember by now.
The whole class turns it's attention to me. A few people whisper. "Loser!" This is their entertainment today.
"I don't have a printer." I whisper. She looks at me. She hasn't heard, or maybe she has but she knows the class hasn't. They know though. It happens to often not to, "Speak up!" She commands.
"I don't have a printer." I say it again, louder. Clearer. People snicker. The teacher ignores them, and falls on me again.
"You could use the schools." She informs me. My face turns red. I know that. It's the words that confuse me. It's a printer that spits out you work, I remember now.
"Y-you need a—a computer to use them." I stumble over the words, making sure they are right this time. The class leans forwards, smirks pasted onto their faces.
"Do you have, a computer, Kai?" She asks. Of course she knows the answer. How can she not?
"No." I say. It is true. And the school makes allowances for that—if you don't have a computer, you don't have to type your work, and the teachers will tell you your assignments if you ask. It doesn't happen, though. The school should know that, too.
"Could you have borrowed someone's?" She asks, sharply.
"No." I say. "There wasn't time." That's also true. I went home for help, and I meant to go back to borrow Wyatt's, but it was too late to go out again. So I just stayed at home. But of course, I can't tell the teacher that—you're not allowed to leave the property.
"Well, I'll have to accept it again." She admits grudgingly. She looks down at it again. "No, I won't." She says. I don't think she meant to say it out loud, though, because she turns pink. "I mean, I can't accept this, Kai. You were told to write a haiku. This is not a haiku!"
"Yes it is!" I protest. She looks at me sharply. "It as three lines, look!" I'm panicking now. My assignment…I spent all night on it!
The class is snickering again. "Yes, it does." The teacher nods. "But a Haiku must have five syllables in the first line, seven in the next and five again. Your poem has…" ----she glances down at it—"Three, two and one." The class giggles again.
"Can't you accept it anyway?" I ask, desperately.
"No." She says. "I'll have to give you a 'zero', Kai."
She leaves the poem on my desk and continues collecting. I look down, feeling numb. That pretty much sums up my life. Zero. A fat, red 'F'.
Note:
If you're reading this…I can't say I know why. But thanks, I suppose…
This is sort of like a journal, I guess. Except that people are reading it. Besides my teacher, I mean. And she's not really reading it either, so actually maybe it's not like a journal at all. But I think I'd go insane not telling anyone any of this. And I can't really tell my teammates. So I put it somewhere where they won't find it and apparently it's worked because you're reading it, aren't you?
--Kai Hiwatari
O.o…Poor Kai. Typical too—he hasn't really explained properly up there. AND he has no conclusion. :P Sorry 'bout that, but I couldn't find anything Kai-ish to say, and not ending properly sounds VERY Kai-ish to me.
Anyway…anyone remember this story, by nay chance? Yeah, that's right…I'm re-doing it. And VERY differently, I might add. Why? I FEEL LIKE IT! Also…the original way was going to take far too long. It would NEVER get finished! And that would be very bad. nods . And anyway, this way makes more sense. (Kai's a terrible writer…why should his story be well-written?) Anyway…I hope the technique (yes, there WAS a technique used, believe it or not!) came off right.
And yes, I know I should be working on my other stuff. I'm planning to re-do most of it anyway, though…
Coming soon—that oh-so-mysterious family of Kai's shall be revealed! Also, you can look forward to flashbacks of the Abbey, and other such things in his past. Oh yeah! And Kai's doing the reviews, the same as last time.
Review? I LOVE suggestions, and I do use them. And yeah—you can address the review to either Kai or me. Put anything you don't want him to read in parenthesis (The things this note is inside of…) And I'll hide that section from him, and respond myself. Anything you want to ask Kai to talk about…just ask him…suggestions to do with the content can go my way.
THANKS!
--Monarch