Fade to Black
I was lying in the middle of the calculus classroom. I knew I didn't belong there, and I wasn't sure how I got there. I didn't remember crawling in the door, I didn't remember collapsing to the blue commercial carpeting. I didn't remember how the carpet faintly smelled of dirt, probably from things the students tracked in on their shoes. I didn't remember sobbing about how much my life sucks, about how my dad beats me because I'm overweight, about how I stick his toothbrush down my throat to make myself throw up at night, about how no one understands. No matter how long I talk to someone, or how many people I talk to, no one ever gets it.
I don't remember the surprised faces of all the students, most of them slowly moving forward on their chairs to glance at me over the tables, wanting to see more, and yet not wanting to watch at all. Others slumped back in their seats, annoyed and disgusted but obviously grateful for any type of interruption to the class that drags on forever. I don't remember ever feeling so alone in a room full of so many people.
I don't remember the teacher's confused expression, dry erase marker in hand, unsure of her next move—should she combine like terms, find the derivative, or deal with the distraction on the floor? She couldn't make up her mind, continuously placing her marker on the board and picking it up again, making sounds not audible over my babbling. I knew it was a click, the sound of plastic against metal, but I don't remember hearing it. I don't remember how she finally placed her marker down, put her hand to her forehead, and left a black streak of dry erase on her skin, as if she had erased the board with her face. I don't remember how none of the students noticed, since they were too busy staring at me.
I don't remember laughing, going from hysterical sobs to hysterical laughs, all bipolar-like. I don't remember how my entire body shook with every noise that came out of my mouth. I don't remember laying my face on the carpet and tattooing my cheek with little red imprints of the carpet texture.
I don't remember the face of the girl who knelt next to me, who took my hand, and told me that everything was going to be okay. It was a lie, but I don't remember not wanting to believe her. I don't remember how she kept putting her hair behind her right ear, almost nervous, almost regretting that she was the one to get out of her chair to kneel next to me. I don't remember how the other students slid back into their seats when I stumbled to my feet and walked out of the door. I don't remember the girl walking at my left side, with one of her hands on my back, guiding me to the counselor's office and opening doors for me as if I were handicapped and couldn't do it myself.
I remember how it rained that day. I remember how the drops of water slowly dripped down the window, gathering other drops, becoming larger, gaining speed, falling. I remember. I was always happier when it rained, but not today. Today, I remember wanting to forget.