At 10 o'clock the picnic table by the huts was always free. Of course that, by 10 o'clock, everyone was stuffed in the classrooms Croyden has provided us for the insufferable lectures the teachers were willed to give us, thus the table being free. But I didn't bother with the dull 10 AM Spanish class I was already late to, I only cared about getting to the table for an entire period of peace and silence and a book that could never be read enough times.
So as I walked smoothly through the school's corridors with only my ephemeral piece of paradise that (maybe a punishment for the enormity of my sins) was uncomfortable as hell, I was quite shocked to see that, at 10 o'clock, the hut area that was usually as lonely as a dead fly, was indeed populated this morning.
By the vending machines a pale looking girl with dark silk curls falling off her back and shoulders, waterfall-likewise; not dressed in Croyden's oh so very strict attire – just some plain very worn jeans and a violet t-shirt that was obviously at least a size too big on her – who seemed to be having her own very first violent confrontation with the machine.
After an intense moment of glaring, the girl opted out by grabbing its sides and shaking, as if she were strong enough for that to work. But the inconclusive results this experiment provided, led her to start kicking it, and, as I slithered into my table as quietly as I could, I was enjoying the show more and more. First smile of my (at least until then) very depressing morning.
And then, frustration dripping from each syllable she spoke, she said the words.
"Let them out"
Get them out
A sort of flashback hit me: hands with dark nails pressing violently against crumbling walls, a violent head ache, my ears rang – no, her ears rang; the sounds evolving her were dull and confusing, a mix of noises that she couldn't quite process. Get them out. Get them out.
The words rang in my head as I watched her land a few more kicks on the vending machine and as my mind replayed her words countless times over and over I became absolutely sure it was her. She was the girl I had heard in my dream (now, maybe vision?) back in December. This was real, she was really here but I had already heard her.
"You have an anger-management problem" I said and watched her spin on her heels (well, she didn't have heels, she just wore some, again, very used converse) and turn to where my delightful voice came: her dark eyes bright and surprised, a confused expression drawn all over her face and the unlikelihood of the whole situation struck me hard and I couldn't help but smile. I looked down searching for her hands, for some kind of confirmation, and I was so certain it was her it hurt.
She turned around almost tripping on her things that were still spilled all over the floor, maybe checking to see if I was really talking to her or if there was someone behind her, and I took that as my cue to leave. In about 10 minutes (maybe less, rumor spreads too fast around here) when she gets to class and actually meets people, she'll hear about my ever so fabulous reputation.
But believe me. I'd be doing my best to find about hers too.