The Rift

Chapter 4

The tears drip off my nose and onto the yellowish tile. I’ve been crying a lot lately. But I’ve been doing a lot to deserve it.  I talk back to my teachers, lash out at other students, and yell back at my parents. I’ve been in more trouble than ever this past week. My wardrobe has even changed. I dress in plain colours, and try not to be noticed. Grays and bland browns. I hide my face behind a little black cap, and tell teachers screw off when they say hats aren’t allowed in school.

It’s lunchtime, on a Monday. I get teased a lot, because of my grades and my clothes and my lack of make-up. I like to hide in here, the deserted girls’ washroom at the end of the hall. No-one comes in here, probably because it stinks.  But it’s a great place to hide.  The floor is a gross yellow color, the walls a funny pink, and textured. The stalls are a pale blue. A row of old, nasty, rusted up sinks takes up one wall. There are two mirrors, although one of them is half missing, and there are shards of glass littering the floor. I’ve locked myself into the stall farthest from the entrance, my bag hung on the hanger nailed into the door.

I lean my head in my hands and place my elbows on my thighs. My still red scar hurts, but I ignore the pain. The tears slowly come to a stop, but my eyes are still red. If I come out of here looking like I’ve been crying, they’ll just torture me more. I decide to stay put.  But I can’t stay still for long. The quiet drives me crazy, because there’s nothing to distract me, to keep me from thinking and dwelling on things that already happened.

There’s an annoying dripping, coming from one of the sinks outside my stall. It’s driving me crazy, but I’ll use anything to keep my brain occupied. I’m about to step outside and shut it off when a gaggle of girls waddles into the bathroom. I say waddles because they all have on such high heels they can barely walk. This is why I wear sneakers; you can always run when you need too. And they’re just way more comfortable. I lean back silently, sitting down slowly on the toilet as to not make any noise. I hope they don’t notice me. At the current moment, they are keeping themselves busy by applying ridiculous amounts of make-up, so they don’t pay attention to one closed stall at the other side of the bathroom. They chatter in high-pitched squeals.

“OMG did you hear what happened with Rose?!?!”

“She’s such a slut!”

“I hear she practically forced Liam into it….” They talk it oddly high voices, not even bothering to lower them while they talk badly about a fellow classmate. I wish they would go away, and leave me in peace. If they find me in here….

 “He is pretty hot! I mean, like, if he offered…” they squeal and giggle. I have to resist the temptation to cover my ears. The bathroom is a great place to pick up on important gossip. I hear the sink run quickly, and some whispering. A sharpie is uncapped. One girl, with pink heels, steppes into one of the stalls, I hear some quiet squeaks then one girl say,

“Lex! That’s not your actual writing!” followed by some laugher. Another girl replies,

“So no-one will know it was me!” the girls leave after this, talking excitedly, grouped together like one big organism.

I slowly creep out of my stall. I find the one they were in before, and I see written in on the wall in sharpie,

 ROSE IS A SLUT!

 I look around me, in all the surrounding stalls. there is grafiti everywhere. mostly writing, about how so and so loves this person, and this is my number, call me kinds of things.i walk back to stall, reach into my bag, and pul out my own sharpie. I kneel down, and near the bottom of the wall, I start to draw. slowly, with delicate strokes, i paint out the jungle, and add my little stream . I lean back, happy with my work. now whenever I come in here, I'll feel just alittle bit happier. But as I leave the washroom, I feel a little twang of nervousness in my gut. what if someone saw me dreaw it? or recognized the drawing from the many times I've drawn it in class instead of listening? or from my art sketchbook? But I brush those thoughts away. nobody ever comes in that bathroom, and no-one would pay enough attentuion to the graffiti to notice. but still, I'm scared.