Neon Red Silver

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I stumble in the doorway onto matted blue-green carpet seconds before the bell rings. The wooden desks around are almost full, leaving one open in the front. I sit then pull out my pencil and let my mind aimlessly wander. It’s always the same.

I wait. The black etched into the table’s surface draws my dwindling attention and the teacher starts his introduction. I wait. He speaks of impressive things–projects, movies and papers. He paces the floor in anticipation. I wait.

He rattles off the list of names, placing a check next to each one. He goes down the list and the chorus of ‘here’s’ reside in the white brick room. He stutters. I correct him. He moves on.

My name is a curse. It cuts like a long slender blade that reflects light off its silver in broken fragments.

I don’t like silver. It shines and demands attention. I would much rather be a different metal, a richer metal or a harder one. Not a soft sheet of silver. A soft reflective sheet of silver.

It’s like a house of mirrors, so easy to look at the reflection and get lost in the maze. And though we are absorbed in illusion, we never think to look down, to look deeper, or see the painted path. The painted solution at our feet.

My name is a sham. It’s a blinking neon sign to look at, to stare at, to judge. It causes every one of the five letters, every mirror, and every stumble to be painted in a new shade of red. Neon red silver.





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