Endless

• Georgia Weir, Grade 11, St Patrick's College
• Short Story
• 2014

Excellence Award in the 'The Text Generation 2014' competition

I curse as the wind whips at my skin. Great, just what I need. Another imperfection to hide. Angry, threatening clouds of black and blue swarm around above me, wind contorting trees unnaturally. I try to remind myself feebly that I am strong and can make it through the day, but I fail as the tall, bleak and twisted gates stare me down from the end of the street. To me they are a symbol of oppression. Iron prison guards, holding me captive in a living hell. A place of learning, simply mask for a social hunting ground. Passing through the haunting barriers I am immediately scolded by Mrs Green to take out my earphones. She doesn't understand, the teachers never understand. Despite their constant, presumptuous attempts to convince me otherwise. The music, my shield, if I play it loud enough I won't be able hear as they spit ridicule my way. I'm careful as I walk, sticking as close to the wall, maybe if make myself as small as possible the won't see me.

They notice, they always notice. Perched on the seats birds of prey amidst the vibrant, green garden next to the gates, that's where they sit. Everyone wants to be one of them, to be popular. Only no one else knows what a horrible reality it is to be one of their targets. They bark at me with all the venom they can muster, telling me that I am pathetic, a sad excuse for a human being. Why do they hate me? I can feel heat swelling up inside me, making my head spin with nausea. I believe them, I sicken myself with my deficiencies. My failure to conform to the beauty standards by wearing size 12 and not having perfect skin. Because I try to do well in school to please my parents, seeing as there is no other way they will notice me. Why? Why am I like this? Tears begin to claw at my eyes, desperately seeking freedom. My feet are stuck and as the bell beckons me to class, I see a lone flower in the garden. What once must have been a fuchsia stab in the ocean of green is now singing a harsh wintery song. Browning at the edges and dying. I want to tell that flower that its okay, and that it will get better come spring. Who am I kidding? The flower will soon die and its beauty will be forgotten. Still cemented in place I fight off tears. The sky is darker now.

Walking into roll call an infinite world of silence exists between myself and the pack. The silence of a thousand unspoken words of my longing to belong to their sheltered happiness. Surprise, surprise more laughter has been liberated at my expense. Ignoring the morning announcements, tears endeavouring break my composure, advancing to wipe away my fake smile. I let a single tear fall, as the soft patter of rain rings in my ears.