It was the first day of September, a nice, warm day. Seemingly perfect and not a single thing out of place. For the students of class 2-C such as myself though, it was horrible. Why? It was the day that we chose the next kid to bully. Each kid wrote their name on a slip of paper and slipped it into the small, black box that was usually used to contain unsharpened pencils. With a shaking hand, I reached my hand into the box, dropped the slip of paper and drew it out again, my hand scraping the edge of the top and giving me an odd, satisfying sting. I had always wondered why the school just left us to carry on with our so-called "tradition". It was then that I realized nothing was ever what it had seemed before. I could see the darkness emitting from the teachers' hearts. Whenever they spotted us after that, they smiled at us and said,
"You children are so cute, playing with each other like that!" I understood now. There was no sense of security within anyone at all. Instead, hatred boiled within every single human being, and no one trusted anyone. This was the world we lived in. No light, no hope. Just darkness and despair. I looked up holding my breath. The kids that had been bullied in the former month always struck back with more spite and vengeance than before. The cycle kept going, the need of revenge becoming more and more frequent as time went on. It was like a drop of blood spreading through a cup of water. It became more and more closer to being completely blood everyday. How ironic. Here we are, talking about blood, in the very room where so much blood had been spilled before. Almost no one could remember the day that this "tradition" had started, but I did. It was when we were in 5th grade. They killed my best friend. They brutally murdered her. I had fallen into depression since then, and no one even tried to talk to me anymore. It came to the point where I was glad to wear a long sleeve t-shirt, even in the summer. It came to the point where every single thing in my house was rounded and blunt, where there was no glass to be seen. Still, the scars on my arm increased daily. My parents scolded me, my "friends" bullied me, my friend's parents hated me. But whenever I cut my arm, there was no "someone else" or "if only you hadn't". It was just me and the room, the pain and the relief. I was snapped back into the present and the room filled with tension as the head of the street gang drew a strip of paper. I barely heard anything she said as she smirked and said,
"The lucky winner of this month is…" she pointed a finger at me. "you." I gasped and fell back from my chair. The kids surrounded me and a few minutes later, there was no sign of me or any of my classmates. Just the slightly burnt picture of my friend and I standing in front of our elementary school and the eerie silence of an empty, crimson and brown classroom.
The End...Yay?
This was my first my attempting something sad... Please tell me how I did below!