It doesn't take long for me to arrive at the classroom. The door is open, Mr. Bornyard greeting passersby. I nod at my teacher, but when he looks over, pity is clear on his face. No surprise there.
I roll into the room to the back corner. Two couches form around a soft blue rug. I park my wheelchair at the end of one couch and hop out, hobbling to it. I sit down and grimace. The worn out, hard cushion fails to soften my fall and the material, torn up and ratty, provides no comfort.
However, Rachel, a shy but sweet fourth grader, distracts me. Rachel lost her single mom and sister to a fire in their house last year. The fire left her with part of her face mildly burned, and partially blind in both of her eyes. Rachel developed Traumatic Brain Injury as she struggled to deal with the distressing event that changed her life forever.
The ten year-old is a new student; she was placed in here at the beginning of the school year, because she had barely passed the year before. Haunted by her past, and cursed with poor eyesight, Rachel had struggled every day. She's very smart and creative, but she was also bullied and alone, so she's in here until she is used to her new life. Now, the sweet girl is able to work at a comfortable pace and receive the therapy she needs, since she is allowed to leave early if needed. The bullying hasn't decreased, though, and Rachel is still very traumatized. Even after the temporary effects of her TBI vanish, she'll be in this class for a while.
Rachel walks up to me and crawls into my lap. She's really small for her age, so she fits almost perfectly. She curls into a ball and sniffles, and I feel the tears dampen my shirt.
"What's wrong, Hun?" I ask. I know she is bullied worse than I, and that angers me beyond belief.
"I-I rode the other bus today. No one would move over at first, so I could sit down. A girl scooted over but as I was heading to her seat, she stuck out her foot and tripped me. No one bothered to help me. Ava, why does everyone hate me?" Rachel's brown eyes are big and sad, begging for answers as she stares at me. She hides her face as more tears fall down.
I ask myself what she just asked me every day. However, she is ten. I can handle the pain; she shouldn't even know what bullying is. Did she choose to have a house fire kill off her mom and twin sister—who happened to be her best friend? Did she choose to have her dad leave her at a young age, leaving her mom to take care of the family alone? Of course not, so why would she have chosen the injuries she has now?
I growl as my hands curl into fists. I am furious. Rachel notices my reaction.
"Ava, what's wrong?"
I shake my head and ruffle her hair.
"I'm angry, that's all. I know what it's like Rach, and you don't deserve it." I hug her sympathetically.
Her next words shock me.
"But I do deserve this, Ava. I deserve everything."
Twenty minutes later, Rachel is asleep on my lap. She had begun sobbing, and it took me some time to calm her down. While she had been crying, I had is severely depressed, and, like me, feels a strong self-hatred toward herself. Luckily, I was able to convince her she was wrong about being worthless—at least for the time being. Even so, this scares me. The thought of telling her adoptive parents such a heavy secret now lies heavily on my shoulders.
"Ava, let's work on Algebra." Mr. Bornyard calls from the other side of the room. He knows what just happened, and is probably trying to distract me. Even though I know this won't help, I reluctantly agree.
One at the table, I find my homework and pull it out of my binder. Noah, another freshman, sits beside me with his own work.
"Let's get started on this. We will get work out of the way this morning, and then you can have the rest of the day to yourselves. Perhaps we can serve cookies at lunch?" Mr. Bornyard is making this compromise for Noah, who excitedly nods his head. I haven't been told what his diagnosis is, but he often acts like a little kid. I think he has Down syndrome. Noah hates school, but it has helped him a lot. Still, Mr. Bornyard made a compromise with him: if he does well during class, then he can serve cookies at lunch.
I shrug in agreement and the lesson begins.
Once we finish the lesson, Mr. Bornyard declares that it is time for lunch.
"Kay, let's go." Mr. Bornyard tells us. Once everyone has collected what he or she needs, we form a line with myself in the back. We travel through the deserted hallway, a peaceful silence having set upon us. Suddenly, Jerry skitters around the corner looking both breathless and terrified.
"Jerry, what's the matter?" I can tell by his scared eyes and red cheeks that something is horribly wrong. He runs to my side.
"M-my mom. She's here. Chasing me." He whispers. He loses balance for a second, so I grab his arm and steady him.
"Jerry, your mom is in prison." I remind him gently.
"No, I-I saw her. She said she is going to kill me. She is real, I swear." Jerry cries as he collapses onto the floor. His eyes shut and he goes limp.
Carly, the oldest student in the class comes over. She has no set diagnosis that I know of; I think she just has trouble with doing simple, every day things like eating and going to the bathroom. Her speech is poor and she's often slow to understand what people are saying. However, I know no one who is as sweet as her; I just wish people could see that instead of only looking at the difficulties she has.
"Was wong?" Her words, although slurred, don't match up the concern and kindness in her tone. Her warm green eyes fill up with tears as Jerry starts to shout nonsense. He is covering his ears and eyes, and his shouts fade into mutters.
"He's having a flashback." I murmur. Carly doesn't know the depth of what he suffers from—Traumatic Brain Injury and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but she does know about the grim combination of the two, such as flashbacks, hallucinations, spasms and slowed brain processing.
Mr. Bornyard comes over and kneels by my friend. He knows how to help Jerry, and has before.
"Jerry, don't worry. Everything is going to turn out okay. You will be all right. Just relax. Forget all your troubles." I can't hear anything else he says, for his voice lowers in volume, loud enough only for Jerry to hear. I prepare to see what I have watched before—Jerry escaping from the world he is now, and sink into reality.
Unfortunately, it's not before the sharp ring of the bell. Kids pour around us from all directions, a giant wave ready to crash. They manage to avoid the small crowd my class has formed, but not without the rude marks about Jerry.
"He's having a stupid attack!"
"What's wrong with him?"
"Freak."
"Are you okay kid?"
"Obviously he is not. Don't be a retard yourself!"
"Hey Jim, look. It's a freak show—for free!"
The last comment sets me off.
"Shut up! Shut. Up!" I whip around to glance at the student who made the comment.
"Just shut the hell up! You idiots don't know a piece of what he's been through, so why the hell are you judging him? Shut your damn mouths for once and leave us alone." There is venom in my tone, and I have shut everyone up.
To make everything worse, the silence is broken by laughter. I slowly turn around as they walk away, making comments about me.
Failure. You're a failure.
When the last student scurries away, Jerry snaps back into reality. He has little balance when he first stands up, so he grabs my shoulder. For some reason, this accidental action sends butterflies into my belly. I shake away the unexpected feeling, focusing my attention on Jerry.
He looks up and meets my eyes, but I can't really meet his. This is because his expression is so…dead. Haunted. Empty. As if he heard the comments. And who knows, maybe he did.
Slowly, my black-haired friend comes to his feet. He has little balance at first, so a hand grabs my shoulder. For some reason, this action sends butterflies into my belly. I shake away the unexpected sensation, focusing my attention on Jerry.
"Are you a bit better now?" The look on his face tells me what I don't want to hear: no. I can tell just by his gaze that he is stressed, upset, and mad.
"Fine." I know he wouldn't have said anything differently; at the very least, he won't at school. Mr. Bornyard walks over and surveys the two of us.
"You okay, son? Do I need to call Kimi?" Once in a while Jerry has to go home after a flashback because he is in so much mental pain.
"Yeah." Jerry nods and a stand up straight; his balance and sense of everything has completely returned. He speaks once more.
"Yes, I can stay. I'm not that hungry, though." Mr. Bornyard nods in understanding and signals for us to walk. Jerry pushes my chair down the hallway, and because the line has broken up, he and I are beside two other classmates. Judging by just their expressions, I can tell I am not the only one lost in a dazed silence.
The rest of the journey to lunch is uneventful. In the cafeteria there is a table set aside for my class, so we all head in that direction. But while some go to sit down, Jerry, Carly, and myself stand in the lunch line.
When we come back, the mood has shifted from uneasy to relaxed.
I turn to Kalena, a sophomore. A car accident her freshman year paralyzed her waist down and limits her hand and arm movements. She's been taking physical therapy for about a year now, and her parents and therapist believe she's able to move to the mainstream classes soon. She'll never be able to walk again, and needs a catheter to use the bathroom which will probably require an aide later on in life, but other than that, she is most definitely ready.
"How are you?" She takes a slow, determined bite of her taco, waiting for my answer.
"Fine." I lie and shrug. I don't look at her.
She knows you're lying. You're a filthy, horrible, rotten liar. I guess that's just another thing to add on to the list, isn't it?
"And you?"
Kalena looks down at the table, a weird expression forming, yet she doesn't say anything. She plays with her fingers and mutters something.
"Pardon me?"
"I'm good, too." She mumbles. I raise my eyebrow, doubtful that Kalena is well; doubtful she'll even tell me what's wrong.
"Are you sure?" I push.
"Yeah. I'm fantastic." Her words are sharp, a clear sign to stop asking. Before I can say anything else, Kalena picks up her tray, the taco now gone, and heads for the trash. She dumps her trash into it, and then rolls toward the bathroom. I want to go after her, ask what's wrong. I should. It's the right thing to do. And yet, I still turn around. I still plaster on the forced smile. I still pretend to be a part of my family, to laugh at the jokes, and still act like nothing is wrong when really everything is.
We arrive back to class thirty minutes later. I feel unusually weak and tired, so I lay down on the couch. Rachel has gone home, leaving me to sleep.
In my dream, I am running. I don't know what from, though. I can't tell where I am, either; all I see is blackness. Time seems to crawl by as I run, my legs growing tired, my breath shortening. I finally decide to give up when I feel like passing out, but then the predator leaps in front of me.
I skid to a stop and scream. The creature terrifies me with his large, muscled body. It has two legs and two arms, but they are abnormally long and covered in matted black hair. The predator has blood red eyes, and a wicked grin that promises only pain and suffering. The animal towers over me, looking down, studying his target. Midnight black wings unfold and he swipes a clawed paw at me. I manage to avoid his knife-sharp claws, but barely. Barely.
I have seen this creature before in my dreams.
He is a monster, but he has only shifted into one.
This beast can take the form of anything he wants.
This beast…is my own personal demon.
The demon roars as I duck from another swipe. He crouches down as though a cat, ready to pounce on its prey.
He is the cat.
I am the mouse.
The monster pushes off the ground and flies into the air. His wings balance him out in the middle of the air. He hovers, the expression on his face daring me to move. I don't. At that, he changes position and dives downward. I hold up my arms as he prepares to-
"Ava! Ava wake up! Are you okay?" I rocket up on the couch, still screaming and writhing. Unable to control my actions, I fall off the couch. Thud. I wince as I hit the carpet, but sigh in relief for it calms me down. My vision, which had been blurry, clears up and when I glance up, Jerry comes into my line of sight. His face is painted with concern. My hearing still hasn't fully recovered, so his words are distant and slurred.
"Ava, sweetie. Are you okay?" Somehow I find my voice. I wince as a sharp pain jolts through my head, and inwardly groan; for the past few weeks, I've been getting really bad headaches every day. I guess this is the next one.
"I—I….don't know. What happened?" I hold onto my head, closing my eyes.
"You fell asleep…started scr-screaming and thriving. We-we didn't know why. You were like that for five minutes. Nothing we did helped; we couldn't even get n-near you. Teacher tried…you slapped him in the face. Ava, ca-can you tell me why you were acting like that? Do you know at all?" It takes me at least two minutes to process all of what he was saying…everything felt so real. Yet…I know I was dreaming. I know it wasn't real, but I don't. I open and close my mouth several times, debating on what to tell Jerry. He is my best friend after all, but I don't want him worried about me.
Like he'd ever be worried about you, retard. Don't be such a dumbass
"I don't know. I can't remember…it's all a big fuzzy image." I mumble. I avoid his eyes, but catch the mixture of emotions on his face. I detect doubt among the concern and hurt, but it eventually leaves. Eventually, he nods and helps me up, and somehow we get on with our day.