Play Time

The classroom. 31 students. Each as rowdy as the one next to them, but with their own little flairs of defiance. And me. The new kid. Watching them all as the powerless teacher fails to introduce me to the final level of hell. Paper, pencils, pens, even a chair flies across the room – and the kids aren’t just sharing equipment. It’s target practice; and the real contest starts at break. I can see them all preparing internally. Hit or be hit. They’ll be kicking balls, flinging rocks, and damn near killing each other for the 15 minutes of freedom from this makeshift prison. One empty desk. Next to the quiet one in the corner. I pull up a chair and enter my cell. Those barren walls trap the maniacs within this cage, this pit, this torture chamber. No pink poster or magenta map will keep my insight sat bay. I’ll judge these people like God will in the end (only I’ll be more accurate). 

We manage Maths and explore English in anticipation for break– fear or excitement? The choking tick of the clock counts down our final seconds before such temporary release, each of us lucky parolees granted a brief taste of freedom. That ear-rupturing bell finally sounds, beginning our time, with each second the teacher keeps us behind stealing an eternity of ours. 

“Go, have fun.” Those words of beauty seem to bring out a whole other animal in the children. I traipse out behind them, longing for the safety of those four walls, with no hope of staying inside. I pick my way to my desk neighbour, hoping he would have even greater insights than myself as to how to avoid the danger. Naturally he didn’t. Useless. Relying on my own intellect and judge of character, I leave the main body of children and find an empty bench, far enough away that wandering balls would avoid me, but close enough that I don’t seem like an outcast;  a lost soldier returning to a decimated town after a lifetime of war.

Occasionally the teacher looks across at me from the other side of the playground. I know what she’s thinking. I’m not joining the group, though– as much as I would love to meet my cellmates, avoiding death is, for some reason, more important to me. Based off of her folded arms and receding stance into the corner, I can tell she’s weak. A gentle glare and a subtle shake of the head puts off any questions for now. Avoiding eye contact is also a great way to get someone off your back. Try it, next time the Warden wants you to join in with arts and crafts. 

Naturally, my luck dries up. I see him spot me. Dodging a football turns into prolonged eye contact and he realises the opportunity. Kick one at the new kid. The class clown smirks before sending it dead in my direction. His kick is weak, though. It misses. Close enough, though, to bring the attention of a few others. And a few more. And more and more, until the whole class is throwing, kicking, hitting balls at me. Anything of any shape and size, as the teacher stands and watches, still too scared to intervene. A rock to the face. An eruption of laughter. A trickle of blood. Blissful silence. A cold, cement floor.

The doctor blurs into my vision, the whiteness of her lab coat hurting my eyes. The mattress is comfier than the floor, but not by much. Beeping fills the background, enough that I can barely hear her talking to my mother. 

“He’s gonna be fine. We’ve stitched his cheek up, he just needs to rest. Give him a day off school. He shouldn’t need more than that.”

I didn’t. Two days later I was back, writing, working, watching. 

They look at me funny as I walk proudly through the door. Probably surprised. They were most likely expecting to have broken me; praying for me to need more time off. I know exactly what they’re thinking. Some people would find my insights to be a burden. Not me. I know how to use them, how to manipulate my thoughts, and in turn take advantage and control of my unsuspecting subjects. They’re wrong. Whatever they think about me, they’re wrong. Living with such a skill, you develop methods of hiding your own truth, covering yourself from the outside world for fear that someone uses you just the same as you use them. 

I take my seat and shackle myself in, readying myself for the hellish day to come.

They’re predictable as usual. Disappointed that I didn’t take more time off, they direct their attacks straight to me. At least five pencils land hard onto my head. Countless paper aeroplanes too. I don’t respond. Acknowledging them will only fuel their anger, their desire to destroy me and everything I stand for. This is a war, and I’m not even playing defence. I’m as neutral as Sweden in the Second World War (I knew what they were thinking too. I don’t even need to have been there). 

Break is awful as ever. No rocks come my way this time, but plenty of tennis balls, footballs, basketballs and everything in between smack, smack, smack me until finally I crack. I’ve never done anything like that before, but there’s nothing holding me back now. No control, no hesitation, no fear.

I fling and fling, bringing wrath upon those who wronged me, the fear in their eyes fuelling me with pure ecstasy. They’ll never mess with me after that. I’ll be the outcast I never wanted to be, but at least I’ll be free. Free from these social shackles, free from the cycle of torment, free at last. One falls. Then another. And more after them. Until all that is standing is the class clown, the initiator of my personal hell. I scoop up one rock, and send it straight at his face. 

He goes down.

I’m not even asked to go to the head teacher’s office. I’m already on my way by the time the teacher clocks what’s going on. Off to see the Warden, I tell her as I waltz past, filled with violent glee, high on adrenaline. 

I tell my story. I get the detentions. Every day for the rest of term. “Not all of them targeted you.” He said. “But you targeted all of them. You’re suspended for two days. When you come back, it’ll be weeks before you even see the playground again.” Oh well. What a shame. I can’t waste my time at that concrete warzone. I got my victory, and no one even knows I did. 

I more or less sprint home. It’s all a bit of a blur as the adrenaline wears off, exchanged for that victorious feeling of freedom. Home at 1:15 on a Wednesday, I think to myself. I could get used to this.

I head up to my room, my dark, empty room, and stare deep into the mirror. I see myself, but not in the way I used to. I’m changed. Sure, my face is the same as a month, a year ago, ignoring the cut across my cheek, but there’s something different. Something wrong. I don’t like it. I hate it. I hate myself. I feel my pulse quicken, my breathing shallow and raspy. I find myself begging for air as I lift my chair and bring it over me, hurling it at the lying mirror. 

Funny, I know everyone with a glance, but I’ve barely noticed myself. Guess being a good judge of character isn’t so important after all.

There’s a knock at the door. I half stumble down the stairs as I reach for the handle, yanking it open, hard. The quiet kid stands there. He lets himself in and sits down on the tatty sofa in the living room. Still silent, he turns and waits for me to speak. “Can I help you? Aren’t you meant to be in school?”

“I snuck out. I like what you did today. I was watching. Those guys have been terrorising me since I joined the school.” Strange -  I didn’t realise he was a new kid once too. “They’ve been doing exactly the same thing to me, and when they targeted you instead, I thought I was free too. In the days you took off, I took the brunt of their rage. Now there are two of us. I thought you were different. But you’re no better than them. Just another violent tween, fighting because you can’t fight yourself.” It shocked me how accurate he was. I guess he’s a pretty good judge of character too. 

We spend all afternoon talking. Planning. Plotting. The school is our target. We’re a pair of modern day Guy Fawkes’, only our gunpowder would cause a bigger boom. He even stayed overnight. The next morning, against our school’s will, I get back into my uniform. Together we march into that prison, past the fixed fences, through the devilish doors, and into our classroom. It’s Judgement Day, and you’re all going to hell.

Sure, I get a little confused about myself sometimes. But I know everyone else. And it’s time they learnt that.