Skylines (Leighade)

1: Scarred

Keeping your hoodie's sleeves up to your palms in southern Florida is fucking difficult. Though, I can't risk others seeing the damage I etched onto my skin. 

Even with sweat spotting my hairline, covering my back, and trickling down my temple. I still dress as if it were somewhere further north.

No one seems to care; which isn't a surprise.
I'm so used to keeping my head down, avoiding any type of communication with anyone. I only gaze up when I hear chalk marking the board and my professor enunciating words.

I sit at the very back, which is technically the highest row. I'm in this row alone while everyone else is three or four rows below me.

I hate drawing attention to myself so I don't speak. Even when Professor Taylor calls on me.

He'd call on me, a stern, but soft look on his face. He tells me often to see him after class, but I'd hurry out amongst the sea of 40 other students. I hate talking about my feelings. It's a weird feeling for me.

I don't know, maybe I'm just so detached from my own self that I can't ever see myself talking about anything I'm going through. Hell, I can't tell anyone if I'm feeling sick or anything.

I just leave or don't show up. That's a toxic trait of mine, I admit. I can't help it, though. When you've been through hell, you put up walls to keep any more flames out.

Damn, my damage is really starting to irritate me. I try to ignore it, but the urge to scratch at them is beginning to take over. I know I can't do it, simply because I know I wouldn't stop and they'd bleed again. Leaving more ugly scars.

I sigh under my breath as Professor Taylor drones on about upcoming exams. I glance up at the clock every second as if this next half hour would go any quicker. I really just want to go back to my dorm and rest.

I'm emotionally exhausted.

I tune him out, resting my forehead on my desk. My crimson mess of hair pooling around my head. I take another deep breath, feeling my emotions deteriorating into an inescapable void.

I hate this part of my depression process. This is when I'm completely apathetic towards everything. My cuts would feel nonexistent, even though I know full well that they're there.

I stop eating and I start sleeping longer. This phase almost made me fail sophomore year in high school. I'm surprised I made it this far. I was told I'm too dumb to make it, but here I am.

In a place I honestly don't wanna be, but I know if I were to stay home, Mom would-

"Miss Haughton, still with us?" My professor's voice calls out. I slowly lift my head, eyes going wide when I see a few people staring up at me.

My mouth went dry as terror starts to wrack through my damp body. I swallow my nerves, trying to ignore the nosy eyes, but my anxiety is rising. My breathing growing rapid.

"Everyone, back to the board," he says sternly before returning his attention back to me. "Are you feeling okay?" I can actually feel sweat roll down my back. The sudden urge to vomit bubbling.

"I-I, um, I'm fine, Professor Taylor," I wipe my forehead with my sleeve then wet my chapped lips. He gives me an unconvinced look and I flash a half smile.

He looks at me a little longer before turning back to the class and continuing his lecture. I fold my arms on top of my desk, feeling more uncomfortable than before. I can still feel eyes on me even though there aren't any. I feel as if I'd pass out.

I fold my hoodie sleeve in my fist before resting my head on my knuckles. I can hardly understand what Taylor wrote on the board; simply because I've been in my head this while time. My fantasies are better than reality. No matter how fucked up.