Freed

Another F. Foul, futile, foolish, flawed.

Fail.

I growl and slam the test down on the desk, kicking back in my chair and plunking my filthy shoes carelessly on top of it. Looking around at my classmates with “I passed” grins plastered all over their stupid faces, I almost feel a wave of insecurity before a sketch peeks at me from inside my untouched English book. I yank it out and admire my masterpiece, gently attacking it with a pencil and erasing any stray lines or unwanted smudges. Art, my one and only passion. Also my one and only talent, as demonstrated through my incapability of scoring above 50% in practically any other subject.

“Claudia? Hey, just talk to me for a second.” Mrs Clarke’s bell-like voice rings softly in my ears, cutting clearly through the thoughts in my head. Her pencil skirt folds prettily underneath her as she settles cautiously into her desk chair. I smirk as I see the name tag hanging precariously off her ruffled top. “Jacinta Clarke”. Basically screams “good behaviour”. Briefly glancing up, the teacher and I make eye contact. I never make eye contact with teachers if I can help it. It’s like their eyes can penetrate directly into my head, and my skull is shaped like the letter F.

She has pretty eyes. For a teacher anyway. They’re a piercing blue, but strangely gentle, as if they’re knocking politely at my mind’s door rather than worming straight through. I almost want to rip paper out of my English book and sketch those enchanting eyes until she opens her mouth again.

“That test was pretty bad, Claudia.”

My head snaps up violently, no longer admiring her somewhat nice eyes but burning fire into them. “Sweetheart, you can do better. Seriously. You just need to try.” Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, so aggravatingly neat it annoys me. Stop it. Stop telling me I’m not smart enough. To my surprise, the pain in my chest isn’t anger anymore. It’s not a hammer hitting me, it’s a knife.

Oh God, I’m about to burst into tears in front of my teacher. My fingers twitch into escape mode, fingering nervously at my backpack. I will not cry in front of my teacher. She already thinks I’m intellectually challenged, I’d rather not add ‘unstable’ to my repertoire of personality flaws.

“Claudia?” Mrs Clarke is looking at me questioningly with concern in her azure eyes. Someone so repulsive doesn’t deserve nice eyes.

She’s still talking to me, but suddenly her petit face has drooped and gone a little blurry around the edges.

All of a sudden, the floodgates come crashing open. I grab my backpack. I push my chair to the floor. And I run blindly out of the classroom, hastily applied eyeliner cascading down my face like a charcoal waterfall.

I reach the front of the school gates and am greeted by torrential rain, but as the monster in my head gets louder and louder not even the downpour can drown it out.

Worthless. Useless. Stupid.

Failure.

I can’t take it anymore. My hands fly to my head, tugging at my dripping wet hair as my face contorts into a tormented wail, agonized screaming escaping my throat. My legs propel into action, running and running as if trying to escape. But how could I escape from the monster when it’s living inside my head?

The world spins as I come crashing down, headfirst onto the gravelly bitumen. My surroundings, already bleary from crying, are now swirling violently.

I can make out two bright lights, becoming increasingly bigger and brighter the longer I stare. Am I dying? Reality hits me in the head almost as hard as the road did, and then I realise what’s happening.

I’m screeching almost as loud as the tires, barrelling towards me against slick asphalt. Tears begin spurting out of my eyes again, unrestrained this time and running rampant down my face, spilling the taste of salt across my screaming lips. Inhuman noises escape from deep within my throat, like there’s something trapped in there, trying to claw its way out. I shake with a combination of rage, disbelief and fear, my whole body relapsing into a state of gasps and wails. I can’t tell if it’s rain, tears or the blood from where I slammed my forehead into the gravel that’s seeping into my eyes, but my hands wipe it away hurriedly.

And then, for one moment, I look up. The driver and I lock eyes. In that one fleeting moment, I can see everything. The mouth, scowling with horror. The face a ghostly shade of white. The knuckles gripping the steering wheel, desperately trying to turn the car any direction but towards me. I can’t see the feet, but the shrieking wheels tell me that the failing brakes are being pushed as heavily as they can be.

I can see the fear in the driver’s eyes, identically mirroring my own.

I can hear my name being shouted over and over, but the voices all blend into a dull hum in my throbbing head. Silently, I cry out for someone, anyone, to save my failure of a life. That I’ll live to be more than an F.

And then I shut my eyes.

Muffled screaming, followed by an ear-splitting screech of tires and a sickening thud. I don’t want to open my eyes. Everything’s pretty silent now, that car must’ve hit me for sure. Hey, maybe I’m in heaven! At that thought I almost scoff out loud. Sure as hell I’m not going there.

Slowly, I open my eyes. A shaky hand presses itself to my forehead and comes away dyed red with blood. A series of expletives explode from my mouth, but that’s not because my forehead is bashed in.

In front of me lies a body. It’s lying on the road, sprawled awkwardly in a position that shouldn’t be capable for a human body. Maybe because it’s broken. Guilt washes over me as I realise that I’m fine. Functioning, free, flawless.

But the body in front of me isn’t. She’s gone. That’s supposed to be me. She gave me her life and I couldn’t even be bothered to give her second glance. With a simple shove she has thrown me safely out of the car’s path of destruction and taken my place on the bitumen.

I haven’t gone to heaven. But Mrs Clarke has.