Note- This is a quick story I thought of in class, so I haven’t spent hours on it. This is just a prologue to my actual story
I sit at the desk, my ideas stuck. I look around the room for inspiration. What’s the point of this? What’s the point of anything? Why do we exist? Is there a reason for us to be here? It’s these questions that replay in my mind. They won’t come out. They’re stuck in my mind, making sense to nobody. I’ll never know the answer, but I think of them anyway. People working, scribbling away in the corner, why are their minds working but not mine?
I breathe in the air of the room. On my first day it smelt funny, but now I’m used to it. I’m used to most things now, like the way we move, to the way we talk, it all just comes naturally. The people I like, the people I don’t like, I know what to expect. Our class photo is on the whiteboard, next to a fractions chart. Reminders written on the board, people who missed days of school, or didn’t do their homework. This is my life every day. People chatting away, Teacher rushing back and forth, rushing to go help every student with their hand up. The class murmurs, loudly this time, and I wonder if they know I can hear every word they say.
I question things a lot. Why was the human body made this way? What would happen if somebody thought about these questions enough? Would they drive themselves insane? Would they die?
I look at a plastic drink bottle, how did humans make plastic? Half an hour until snack time. It’s not that I’m hungry, I just want to get out of class.
Suddenly my brain whirls into darkness, however my body still in the classroom.
Footsteps, echoing down the hallway. I can’t see who’s there, but whoever it is, they seem rushed. I sit, waiting for hours. Who’s going to come? When will this old place shut down? I must be petrified, I’m hallucinating. I swear I heard a scream. Two more screams. Okay, that’s it. I’m out of here. Footsteps, echoing down the hallway. This time they’re mine though, and a lot faster. I breathe faster, and it gets harder to inhale air. My lungs burn, and so do my shoulders. My school bag is filled with old documents of patients at the asylum. It’s creepy, I don’t like it much, but then again it’s sort of cool. I know bad things will happen to me, I just don’t know when.