Innocence (A Story)

I threw this together. Though this is not exactly how things were for me, the character speaking, a freshman girl sounds nearly exactly how I remember feeling during my Freshman/Sophmore High School Year especially when it comes to the way people would act around me or at least how I saw people would treat me if I tried to get out of my shell. Silently angry, hurt, and abandoned, this is the story of a girl with a secret. Let me know if this is worth continuing.
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He remained seated with his body turned facing the easel, a thin tipped paintbrush held tightly in his hand, and an empty canvas taunting him as the paint dripped onto the floor in droplets of blue. He was overweight, hardly looking as though he had moved an inch in his lifetime. His hair was matted, unwashed, clinging to his forehead and not wanting to release itself. He never mentioned his name nor did he appear to ever want to, and I did not want to sift through my belongings to locate the piece of paper with it written on. He was my art teacher and I had no interest in it. I had interest in finding the nearest chair that was mostly hidden in shadows from the poor light circulation. My shelter.

It didn't exist. The miniscule room was filled with freshman piranha grouping together, hunting for overturned boxes of reddish clay to shred. Somebody managed to throw a paper ball in my direction, hitting me on the side of the head. My head erupts in splitting pain. I place my hand on the spot, wincing. The basketball pole jabs another unnaturally tall boy in the ribs, laughing. His finger pointing in my direction.

I bend down and pick up the piece of offending paper. Unfolding it I found what made the hit hilarious to him. A small rock lay in its center. I toss it into the rooms' single trashcan on my way to find a chair far from Mr. Basketball Pole.

The wooden table farthest from the door greets me like an unwanted host family and I am its' foreign guest. I know we'd never be able to fully communicate.

I throw my book bag onto the floor and take a seat. It makes a soft thud. This freshman girl raises her gaze from the drawing being worked on and glares at me, her eyes piercing beneath smooth strands of blonde hair. I slowly reach for the tin can of pencils situated in the center of the table. My elbow nudges her paper for a split second. She pulls it away from my direction as though I had infected the area around her. "Waste." she mouths.

It's the first thing somebody has said to me all morning. I forget about the pencils and instead lean my arm across the table and rest my head on it. My art teacher has not attempted to press the paintbrush tip to the canvas. He's still waiting for the inspiration to zap him. I want to hit him.

Another paper ball sails into the back of my shoulder. I brush my fingers on the spot of impact. The girl who moved her drawing works furiously, sending bits of eraser near my fingertips lying on the table. Another boy with dark hair wearing a gray shirt smirks at me. He makes one of those rude hand gestures at me. His smile remains engraved on his hollow face, never fading. He stands from his chair, walking quietly behind me, and places his hands on both my shoulders at the same moment. His breathe is hotter than the sandiest desert. My heart sinks. He whispers, "You sure love creating drama."

Part of me wishes to smack him hard. Another part of me doesn't want to touch him. Instead I allow my eyes to fall closed and stare at the darkened side of my eyelids. He removes his claws from my shoulder, but I feel a piece of me exposed. I slip my free arm inside my shirt. One less section of me out there. The warmth of my skin vanishes as my arm lies against my stomach. I've tainted myself.

The people around me watch. They don't stare straight out at me, but I sense their eyes glancing out of their corners. I concentrate on the darkness, the still air. It's pleasant. When I finally am able to make it back home, I want to lie on the bedspread and remember the isolation I keep myself in now.