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red scribbled marks

I stared down at the paper in my hands, word after word of substituted reasoning. I watched the words blur as I read and reread watching carefully for mistakes that could cause the need for a red scribbled mark. An ex on my grade, a check against my name. I scrutinized the words of the teacher's pet, the literary genius, the english kiss-up, me. I looked over the printed words over and over again, my only escape from reality, my only world. To her, they were only words, blurred together research, and simple grammer. All these words were to her was a piece of paper screaming at her to mark it up with little scrutinizing red scribbled mark. But to me, they were so much more, they were my life my world, but then again, that didn't matter. What mattered was that I was her favorite, that I needed to be perfect, it didn't matter about my opinions, I needed to be perfect for her. I needed to be amazing, to make an imprint, so that maybe just maybe she would like me, so maybe these words would mean a little more than printed ink across a blank page, even if I knew it wouldn't happen. I looked over the report once more, checking my word count and lining up the pages perfectly, checking my name printed in plain, 12 font size, Tahoma, black ink. then, I stood, my chair sounding a battle cry, and I quickly tried to hush it quiet, pushing it back silently under the desk as I walked past the eyes of all the students. Remember, back straight, one foot, then another, then another, till I was at her desk, meeting her false smile staring up at her perfectly molded student. I carefully set my paper in the wire box, already practically hearing the taunts of the red scribbled marks as I sat down, becasue with her, good, was never good enough.




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