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Hallways of Silence
It was not the sun that warmed my world; or the clouds that blocked my soul. It was not the evil glares that broke me down to nothing; or the feelings of hate that made me weak. It was not the earth’s unwelcoming gates that left me locked outside of this world; for it was not another’s fault that I remain isolated from society. And though I am rather reluctant to admit my vulnerability, I cannot blame the world around me for such exclusions. There was only one cause to blame. And that cause was me.
Known to be the “freak” within the hallways of high school, I stumbled throughout my days with little to no confidence. I staggered throughout years with no pride in who I was. “Tall, lanky, and a freak” was all the others could categorize me as; a skyscraper of bones resembling the strangest outcast yet. And though it appears to be that I feel such vulnerability throughout a daily basis, it wasn’t always that I had such hate for myself. It wasn’t always that I was an outcast from society.
As any kid could possibly conclude, high school years were the years of judgment. The years for when you woke in the morning and felt as though a load of black storm clouds sat upon your shoulders; waiting any moment to explode their mournful rains. I was judged for being the misfit. I was looked down upon for being unique.
And I can remember that very day for when they looked at me with confused eyes. The day they viewed me in a rather “abnormal” perspective. I remember that day down to the smallest, most humble of details.
It was the first day of autumn; the day for when a thick mist of cold breeze sat amongst the dense air. As anyone with high poetic interest would admit, the fresh start to a season was the fresh start to a new page of similes. A new page of life.
With the haunting lonely days of summer behind me, I approached this start to fall with a positive pace of “eagerness;” eagerness for which drew me to believe nothing could possibly bring me down. With full feelings of enthusiasm, I walked into freshman year with the concoction of pride and confidence racing throughout my pulse; pride and confidence that stretched my inner ego far beyond its very capacity.
Scrambled pockets of students graced the halls of G.S.A, like a mere resemblance of tense zoo animals waiting to stampede one another any moment. Faces were pinched with fear. Others were painted with false happiness. And some expressions were utterly blank.
Yet though the external feel varied from happiness to terror, there was a thick karma of nerves within the air. A karma that stated we were all equally drowned within anxiety.
Though the feelings within ourselves all had exact resemblance, there was one factor that drew us apart. And that factor was our physique.
From the first day of freshman year to graduation, I was known as “the freak.” A tall, lanky, weird skyscraper of bones. A skyscraper of bones that made no appearance of external strength. A skyscraper of bones that could barely speak his mind.
And a skyscraper of bones that (what others neglect to discover) could write.
And the bland conversations with my mother draw to a start. Sitting across from me on the front deck, she lazily dangled her feet from the rail, memorizing the tops of the shrubberies with the tips of her toes.
“How was school?”
I didn’t answer, trying to seem as though I did not hear her last remark.
“Meet anyone new?”she questioned, her lips moved in rapid motion, her tongue barely able to articulate the sentence.
I continued to refrain from replying, gazing off into the distance of our front yard. It was not quite common that I chose to ignore my mother-for if I ever did, my silence was most likely due to the negativity of the topic.
Ever since the day I could possibly speak, communication with my mother was more of a chore than anything else. If I misspoke a word, or perhaps unintentionally changed tone within my voice, she suspected a “problem.” And with her idiotic suspicions, my tolerance of patience became merely quite “slim.”
My mother and I were practically night and day, would you so suspect, for our directions of thinking geared among total different paths. She carried herself as though not even a boulder could throw her down, this strength merely the strength I as a teen lack.
I was not known to be Alex King-for instead, I was Cynthia King’s son. I was labeled by the power of my mother, as anyone that did not yet know me (which was most) categorized me as “property of my mother.” And property of my mother was all I was; all others ever accounted me to be.
Spoken through a fearless tone, her mentality was merely weightless, for she never even dared to think before she posed any remark. And if anyone could possibly suspect, we seemed to be as though we were not related. We seemed to be as though even DNA couldn’t pair us together.
Opening my mouth to reply, a rush of thick air clogged the passages of my throat, for I could only possibly produce a pathetic, “good.” It may seem nearly foolish that I as a teen could barely compose a sentence, for adults strongly believe in the stereotype that we teenagers do nothing but talk.
Yet I prove them wrong.
Teen years are the years for when most live in silence.