Cut - Band room

I’m back in class, slinking around in my usual tired way. Smiling hurts my mouth.

I suppose today’s an unusually perceptive day for her. We talk and practice like we usually do, nothing is different. Nothing is ever different. But today she looks worried. At me, perhaps? Or perhaps that’s my not-so subconsciousness need for attention manifesting itself in hallucinations.

Turns out I was correct, because Mr. [     ] called me into his office after class. She had gone to him with concerns that something was wrong with me.

“Is there something wrong?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Would you like to tell me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t care.”

“But you don-“

“Because nobody cares.”

“I don’t know wh-“

“I know what’s going to happen here, because it’s happened twice before. You’re talking to me because either the law or concern for your public image dictates that you do.

I also know what’s going to happen next. You’re gonna throw me to the Counselors like the others have, and they’re gonna throw me around amongst themselves. I’m a fucking sock in a fucking washing machine.

And when one finally nuts up, I’ll tell them what they want to hear, I’m okay. The doctors say I’m okay. They’ll uncuff me, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

I leave, and no one hears from me again.