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Tuesday
This classroom kills me. I refuse to deal with work when my life is so wrecked. Against the flutter of my closed eyelids, the classroom light seems too bright and people seem happy. All happy sets of coincidences – I don’t fit here. Let me go to the toilet, or something.
Lean against the bathroom wall. There’s a mirror and there should be something in the image. Something remaining from before all this started. Is there? Maybe there will be once this all goes away. I don’t know – I don’t know any more.
I count the days again on my fingers. Three. Until then, this classroom is killing me. I don’t know why – homework, people and life never seemed such a chore for the last few years, but they are superfluous. I’m sitting in a classroom, working out how best to ruin people’s lives. That’s sick, that is.
Friday. I can’t decide if that’s a sentence, or the end of one. Guilt’s a thing like that – real enough that you can’t get out of it and imaginary so you can’t explain. But I will explain, as soon as I can. I wonder how it ever got this bad. I wonder how they’ll react.
Someone’s wandering down the corridor. I’d best get back to class, before I do something stupid to myself. This is, after all, a school in which nothing untoward happens.
Heads bob up as I walk back in. I wonder if someone’s been in whilst I was out, to tell everyone what I’ve been thinking. No? Then I can pretend for a few more days that things are fine. Three more days.“Sorry. Just feeling a bit sick.”