Chapter 3

Chapter 3 to The Silent Treatment

Chapter 3

My back rested into my bag pushed up against the wall. I looked at the ceiling counting the dots in the tiles above. I love that my school has so many hallways, almost like a maze I've began to memorize. I've noted the ins and outs in my mind that way I can wander into the deepest corners unburdened by others. Now here I sit in silence like I need it to be, waiting for the bell queueing me to class. After the words stopped, they moved me into a room in which all I had to do was listen. Then, Mrs. Ramirez would give me my assignment and I'd fill in the bubbles and blank spaces. The school called it content mastery, a class usually for the students with dyslexia or learning disabilities, looking to get some help with their work. Quickly after they came to the conclusion I wasn't going to participate in the active social learning process that the rest of the school provided, they placed me there. Yet, I don't really mind and to be completely honest, I'm okay with that. At that moment I sat up and flung my bag around reaching for my notebook. Flipping it open, I read the words, "I think if I was a color, I would be gray." 

Removing my pencil, I wrote beneath it, "and to be completely honest, I'm okay with that."

The bell rang, signaling my departure so I replaced my things, stood up and began to leave, glancing back at the deepest corner unburdened by others.

As the day wound to an end, I headed out the school doors and onto bus one-twenty-five. I took my place sitting right behind the bus driver and tilted my head against the glass. Fumbling through my bag I removed my wadded up headphones and after a few minutes of untangling, plugged them into my phone. As the worlds noise began to fade out, Passing Afternoon by Iron and Wine started to fade in. I shut my eyes slowly and for a moment I think I might have felt happy. 

For some reason, music has the ability to make me forget things. When truly, I'm glad it can make me feel anything at all. It's like the past few months of my life have just become this fog and I've been wandering around endlessly waiting for something. Now that I'm seeing Dr. Samwell I'm hoping that he can be the something I've been waiting for.

I really hope Dad comes around to the idea of therapy because I truly feel like it can help. Maybe he will talk to me again soon, I know I don't say anything but it's still kind of sad when you can notice someone giving up on you. He just doesn't understand me and I don't blame him. Sometimes I don't really understand myself to be quite honest. 

Mom is trying to be as supportive as she can. She leaves me messages every day asking how I've been and if I'm alright. I don't want to scare her to much because I know last time was enough for both of us but I can't help it. Sometimes there is something wrong but Im not really the kind of person who is willing to talk about it.

The songs shuffled in my head and the bus rolled on until it eventually dropped me at the end of my street. I slowly dragged my feet across the sidewalk trying to shorten the time I'd have to spend at home. As I reached one-eighty-three Palm Street I found myself unable to enter its doors. For the first time, I just looked at it. The red brick with black spots. The sparkling black shingled roof. The white trim and door. I then looked up the street and back down and realized many of the homes here looked that way. I wondered if the people in the houses up and down the road, saw them as homes. Thats when I thought to myself.

I wonder what it's like to feel that way. To feel like you belong.

So I sat on the warm cement and pulled out my notebook. As I took glances of my home, I wrote,

"Sometimes I don't understand myself

Sometimes there is something wrong

I wonder what its like to feel that way

To feel like you belong."

I replaced the notebook and got back on my feet, sighing as I walked toward the door. As I enter, I see Dad watching ESPN on the couch. I walk by and into the kitchen, noticing he wouldn't look at me. I pulled a post it note out of our junk drawer and sat it on the counter. I wrote a note and stuck it to the refrigerator door.

"Knock when dinners ready. Therapy tomorrow." 

I never did hear that knock.

Author's Note

Feel free to let me know what you think! There is probably errors so I invite you to correct me and help me perfect this piece of work.