The School Life of The Other Demon

Colors (Tagged?? Pt.2)

Demetria's P.O.V.:

"There are three branches in the system: The Judicial Branch, Executive..."

"I hate American history," I mutter to Damian.

"Isn't this material that they're supposed to know already?" Damian asks.

We're currently in the back of the history class, nothing significantly different in this class than any of the others—appearance-wise. Unlike the other classes that at least provided some type of entertainment, this one does not.

In front of the class is an old, plump man with white hair, glasses, plain business clothing consisting of a white undershirt, khakis, and black shoes. Everything about this man just screams boring.

The room is dark with the only source of light being from the projector. He shines a slideshow on the whiteboard, explaining everything about the American government.

I look around the room in frustration just to see half of the class asleep, on their phones, or just staring blankly at the teacher. Among those students are perhaps a student or two, fully engrossed into the content, taking down thousands of notes.

"Pennyworth's punishments are better than this," Damian groans, tilting his head back in his chair. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Opening his eyes, he turns towards me with a bored expression. "Is hell more fun than this?"

"Definitely," I sigh. "What's our next class?"

Damian sits back into his seat and begins to dig into his bag for the schedule. Taking out the piece of paper, he stares at the words, squinting his eyes to adjust to the light. "Art."

"Art? Like drawing?" I ask him. "Or music?"

"I assume drawing because after lunch we have a class called music."

"Who's our teacher?"

"Someone named Ms. Garcia."

"And how much time until the end of this class?"

"Twenty more minutes," Damian sighs, dropping his head.

I groan a little too loudly, causing multiple eyes to head our way.

"Is there something wrong, Ms. Wayne? Do you need to go to the nurse?"

"No, sir," I answer.

"Are you sure? You're not in any pain?"

"I'm in an immense amount of pain," I whisper.

"What did you say?" he asks.

"Nothing. I'm fine. Continue with the lesson," I say, waving him off.

He cocks an eyebrow at me but proceeds with the class. He talks nonstop with a smile on his face. His voice is monotonous, creating no entertainment. He attempts to make jokes, stopping after his sentences, waiting for someone to burst out laughing, but nothing comes. Perhaps a cough or two as a response, but nothing more.

Twenty minutes of everlasting suffering later, the bell rings. The loud obnoxious sound entering our ears saves us from the torture. Everyone begins to gather their things and walk out of the room, disregarding all attempts of the teacher trying to stop them or indulge in a conversation.

"Where's the location of our next class?" I ask Damian as I grab my bag.

"409C," he says, swinging his bag over his shoulder and picking up the schedule. Do you have the map?"

I take the folded up map out of my pocket and wave it in the air. "Got it."

"Alright," Damian says, nodding his head. "Then let's get going."