Hiding From Hope

A story about a high-school students encounter with the average high-school stress

            The alarming noise of the bell brings me to my feet. Seconds before, I was sound asleep in my own world, away from teachers, students, and learning. I was caught up in my dreams only hoping they would last forever. My teachers have better things to do than care about my education, considering the fact I put no effort into achieving a decent grade. They assume I cannot handle learning because education is for the hopeful, and I have no desire in becoming anymore of a person than I already am. The only sound they hear coming from me is the light footsteps mixed within the echoes of many, throughout the enriched high-school halls.

            I wander to my next class listening to loud voices of popular jocks and the harsh gossips of the cheerleaders, that only their own mother could inspire. They were beautiful as well in these jam-packed halls. Suddenly, one of the starting linemen from our year-round team of jerks abruptly breaks through my bony shoulder in need of constant communication with his team. There is no mention of an apology. It causes no pain, but my own wrenching hatred translates into words.
            “Watch yourself jack-a*s” I say while glancing behind me, watching him walk away.

It is heard by few but the insult is felt by none. The one who ran into me even refuses to acknowledge my vocal expression because I lack the social standard. This brings forth the final stage of humiliation, coming with it, the final stage of anger. I stock up the anger in my ware-house of pain, and move on. The door to my next class remains wide open for the container of steam. Because now, I am filled to the brim with unneeded stress and it is time for the overflow.

The backpack on my shoulders is weighing me down like I'm hiding a cement block within it. It holds more weight than imaginable. I set my backpack onto the nearest desk. The zipper is cheap and difficult to maneuver; however, I manage to break it open. My palms are weak and sweat filled for my next actions are ones that I will regret for the remainder of my life. My hand lowers itself into the backpack and rests itself upon a Glock twenty-two, Smith and Weston. It belonged to my father who is a member of the FBI. I obtained the gun because they recently decided the gun sitting in my backup pack was too powerful for an average agent.

My hand rests within the backpack for some time before I actually make a decision. The sweat on my hands continue to run down my palm, now running onto the Glock.  After about thirty seconds of having my hand there, I realize that my few high school years of living with hellish creatures have brought enough upon me for me to bring something back at it. Aggressively, I sling the gun out from within my backpack. As soon as I do, I realize I did have hope, but chose never to see it.

Author's Note

Hope is never lost

Reviews

[Y.]

It scares me. I'm not sure exactly why, but the story's frightening.
well written, though!