Classroom Thoughts

Boredom in class leads to morbid thoughts. Just like every other day.

I sit at my desk; my hands folded stiffly and uncomfortably in my lap. I stare down at them and take in all of the intricate lines and swirls of my fingers, wondering which hand would get the best fortune if I gave it to a gypsy.  My spine hurts due to the effort I exert to keep it straight, hearing my mother in my head lecture me about the importance of good posture. I tear my eyes away from the mesmerizing swirls of my hands to look around at my peers, none of whom I can actually call a friend. This upsets me a little bit as I divert my attention to my sketch pad, with a barely begun drawing with a multitude of eraser marks covering the page, so much so that I’m afraid it may rip. I contemplate starting it again but I’m not sure if I can deal with drawing something I know I’m probably just going to end up erasing again. I eventually seem to run out of things to direct my attention to, though in this I seem to realize there is something I should have been actually paying attention to this whole time. The teacher.

He stands in the middle of the room, with a posture that seems to mirror the same kind of boredom that I feel, which I find comforting. His voice matches his posture, a deep and indifferent tone drawls out of his mouth. You can almost see the ball bouncing in front of him, setting the steady rhythm of his speech. I suppose I could put some interest into what he’s actually saying, but I believe that would hasten my descent into sleep, seeing as neither he nor I care about what he’s saying. I pick up my pencil and make eye contact with him as I see the same dull, half-lidded eyes I must have as well. I feel sorry for him.

Suddenly I hear a sharp and distinct screech that I recognize as nails on a chalkboard, I look around to try and find the source, when I realize I had just heard it in my head. I sigh as I begin to play around in my imagination, trying to hear something other than the nails, my favorite musical soundtrack or even my own voice, just stop the screeching. Though I may drown it out for a while it still comes back, like an annoying mosquito. No matter how much you try to kill it, it still buzzes around your head.

My mind wanders even further down the twisted path of my imagination, bringing up grotesque memories, thoughts and questions from the very back of my mind, reserved only for dire situations of boredom. I remember how the fat I took out of the rat that I dissected last year in Biology looked horrifically similar to scrambled eggs. I also recall how her intestines were gray, not the fresh rose pink I expected. Then I question whether or not a human’s intestines are actually pink or the same sickly gray as the rat’s. My pencil comes into my line of sight again and I begin to visualize in my head what would happen if I took my pencil and tried to cut my stomach open with it. Will it go through with ease or would I have to jam it through the many layers of skin, muscle and fat? How much blood would find its way out? Will my intestines spill out in front of me or would the incision have to be pried open by my hands? The whole scene plays out in my head, like something from a slasher movie. I wonder if I would ever have the resolve to cut myself open. Maybe.

The bell rings as I am yanked out of my mental movie theater, the film eroding away as I become conscious of the real world again. It seems that the screen I was staring at in my mind was actually the face of a disturbed classmate, who now wears a face that seems to be questioning my mental faculties. I don't blame him. I stand from my seat and gather my things, dumping them into my backpack. I sling both straps over my shoulders as the weight on my back reminds me of why my posture is so poor. I walk through the hallway, actively avoiding eye contact with the strangers who pass by. I wonder if the gypsy would look at both of my hands and tell me what the fortune was for each one.

Author's Note

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