School today, school tomorrow. School, school, school, SCHOOL, BORING. Well, it is not technically boring, rather I am too tired to attend, and by tired I mean sore. All day, in pain. Everyone's sore, growing pains, nothing unusual there. My doctor thinks that it is either that, growing pains, or it's all in my head, and due to my disdain for weakness, being in pain counts as weakness, I will try my best to hide it. I will not show weakness.
"Today is the first day of your child's high school education. This fine school has produced countless students…." Blah, Blah, Blah. My new headmistress, Mrs Gardener,seems to be able to speak for an eternity. It is more a speech towards the parents than welcoming students to the school, which I think shouldn't be the case. My parents have clearly brought the crap about this school being the best, is not obvious from the sea of students attending this institution. While I feel as though I am going to pass out from the insufferable speaking (is it necessary for all teachers from different learning departments and Board of Trustees to speak?), I find my mind a place of torture and not a retreat for my endless source of internal entertainment, as it focusing on my stupid leg pain. The daggers slicing my shins, there is an outward exertion of pressure from inside of my knees and ankles, as if there are balloons inside the joint cavity. Sarcastically, my inner dialogue concludes that this day shall be riveting.
Finally we complete the socially-hazardous journey back to the classrooms, and Mrs Broccoli, or something dreadfully similar, has decided that it would be best to sit in alphabetical order. A stupid idea that this will help her learn our names and as she put it, "control the noise levels." I have yet to be presented with the fact that the order of last names changes our behaviour with others, for I once knew a boisterous group of friends whose last names resided between A - E. I suppose that Mrs Broccoli seems to have thought this through, and with torture in mind, we are seated in desks of two. Sitting next to me is a sullen and equally bored individual by the name of Sherlock.
Be cool, be cool. Don't stuff up on your first day. Cool and monotone, "Hi, my name is Molly Hooper. I can't believe that we are to spend the rest of our schooling years in this prison." Turns out that the corners of his mouth are not held down by weights, he smirks and raises one eyebrow.
"Sherlock Holmes," he calmly states with an outstretched arm, "This isn't supposed to be a prison, one of the finest establishments in the country."
"Some stupid way to entice students to die of boredom at the teacher's hand." This quickly shuts him up. We sit in an almost awkward silence. The moments pass, until I notice that he starts screwing up his face. As if to find the answer inside of his mind, he asks, "What's wrong with your knee? You keep rubbing it."
"Nothing." Shit, he noticed. Act natural, don't show the anxiety, just shrug the comment off. Maybe he won't pay any more attention to it, goodness knows my parents don't. His slightly concerned face is replaced by the former sullen expression. The tension in my upper body fades out as I exhale.

During more first day activities, I find my thoughts once again drifting until another spike of pain, this time my wrist bones feel as though they are pulling apart. That stupid Frozen princess reminds me, 'Don't let them in, don't let them see/ Be the good girl you always have to be /Conceal, don't feel, don't let them know,' and I start to wonder if the observant, morbid, scrawny kid next to me figured it out. He has already revealed a handful of secret habits of other students, marking himself as public enemy number 1.
Not long into the ice breakers, we were playing two truths, one lie. Simple game in which one states just that and everyone else has to figure out which one is the lie. Sherlock not only got every single one correct, but also announced that cry-baby Catherine still sucks her thumb, due to the odd shape of her left appendage and buck teeth. Personally I found it lacking the sufficient information to deduce such a thing, but amidst the poor student's blushing she couldn't deny the accusation. My lie was that I love mushroom soup, whilst the truths were that I swim 10 hours a week and have an annoying younger brother named Ben, clearly my parents were only interested in boring names, or as they say, 'good, plain English names.' I am a competitive swimmer, whilst not fast, it is a hobby I enjoy immensely. People think that I can become an Olympic athlete, but I know I am not good enough.

Mrs Broccoli (still don't know her name) loves gym, therefore planning on more torture for the first day, and the best way to commence such an act is for us to fully bond with our classmates, sickening I know, by completing our Physical Education testing. The idea is to mark and evaluate our improvement throughout the year in compulsory subject that does nothing to prepare us for the wider world. This exercise seems more to establish lines between the already forming social divisions and most of the class being ridiculed. My performance commencing with an above class average of 7.6 on the beep test, I am feeling pretty good about myself. Static Jump, both height and how far in front I can jump, was average if not slightly below. I was exceptionally good during the sit and reach, in which you sit on the ground with your legs fully extended in front of you, lean forwards and see how far you can you can reach in front. Everyone marvels as I lay completely flat, but I internally question why they can't do it, for if they wanted to do well, all they had to do was relax their legs. If I relax my muscles, they can just keep on stretching. Although, the other students lack of mobility did not come as a surprise, I earned myself the title of 'Freak' due to my hypermobile shoulders, at swimming. When I stretch my triceps, the one where you put your bent arm by your ear, and use the other arm to pull the elbow towards your body, I can touch my elbow with my opposing shoulder. Mum often wishes that she kept me in rhythmic gymnastics, as the instructors loved that they did not have to train the flexibility in me. Between my shoulders and my swan neck fingers, I often get comments about becoming a contortionist.
Throughout the day I find myself drifting towards Sherlock, preferring the silence, as I find myself not wanting to participate in class discussions and Sherlock becoming shunned from most conversations due to his poor social skills. The silence is comforting; an unspoken presence that we have each other's back. Turns out that he is exceptionally smart, and has completed his A-levels already. His extroverted parents thought that it would be best if he learnt how to interact with pairs his own age, as he did not appear to carry the same charm as his older brother, Mycroft, and as he explained this, he could not hide his grimace, as if envious of his sibling. I often catch Sherlock staring at me as if I am a puzzle. What is he trying to figure out? Or worse, what does he know about me?

The shrieking bell lets us leave and I am racing towards the primary school to find Ben. The fast walking pace I keep has no bouncing jog as I am trying not to draw attention to myself. Mum says that drawing attention is not a bad thing, but growing up I was taught that I should be humble, not prideful, about myself or my talents, and have yet to find the balance. I climb through the trees and cut across the field of the primary school. Ever-so-popular Ben reddens in embarrassment as I approach, and to turn his complexion redder, I make sure that no one can deny that we are siblings by talking to him.
"Hey, how was your last first day of primary school?"
"Do you have to bring it up, I never want to leave. I have friends, the teachers are cool. I don't want this school year to end, besides your school sounds boring Molly."
"Yeah, it was as eventful as watching Great Aunt Marissa drawl on Christmas morning. You will make new friends next year anyway." The bitterness creeping into my voice, he doesn't realise how lucky he is in the social apartment. I can't help comparing myself to Sherlock, is Mycroft like Ben?
"I'll race you home, Molly," before I can reply he runs off, my refusal dying in the wind. Home isn't that far away, only 3 miles. Ben will run the whole way, I wish I had the energy to, but I am so tired, A.K.A sore.

Pushing the front door open I smell freshly baked cookies, Dad must have had the day off. Recently he has been feeling more and more tired. I think he is in pain too, but he doesn't say anything, similar to me in that way. He had a surgery on his heart two months ago, I think he had something wrong called an aortic dissection, but I am squeamish so I didn't want to know the details. Dad loves cooking, and when he has the energy he does lots of it. When he was younger he wanted to become a chef, but didn't realise that is was a profession he could go into. He regrets being an economic analyst, apparently it is boring. Dad is a big encourager of dreams and says that I can do anything I want, don't let anything stop me. I wanted to be engineer not too long ago, but was discouraged by the male dominated industry. Dad said that it was a lousy excuse.
Mum isnt home too often, preferring to work. We don't tend to get along. She often complains that Dad has man flu, and along the same vein, often complains that I am a hypochondriac. When Dad was in hospital, I had a bad pain night. My bodily pain akin to the most hated voodoo doll full of stab wounds. She yelled and said that it was nothing compared to what Dad had, and if I wasn't so spoilt, maybe I would be considerate of how other people are suffering. That was when I really made up my mind that pain was not to be seen, because it is treated like a dirty secret habit, something that the public's eye should never see, lest there be consequences. What the consequences are, I don't know. I just have to stay strong. Strong and silent.

"Hey Pumpkin, how was your day? Did you make any new friends?" It was no secret that none of my friends are going to the same school, but the asking of new friends feels as though he is rubbing salt into the wound.
"Yeah, there is a boy I sit next to, his name is Sherlock."
"Sherlock? As in Sherlock Holmes? His family is extremely weird, apparently him being the most. Extraordinarily smart, but weird." Curiosity struck me, as Dad is not that social being either, generally not caring about gossip.
"You know him?"
"Yeah, his parents are friends with Auntie Frances and Uncle Mike, you know, Aunt Marissa's kids. The parents are normal but the kids, they are definitely odd. Watch out, won't you"
"Hold up, I am normally cautious and don't often risk making friends, and you're telling me that I shouldn't be friends with him? And besides, and Auntie Frances and Uncle Mike like, really old."
"Yes, and so is the Holmes family. Their eldest is in his mid-late 20's and already holds a government position."
"Creepy."