ᴀᴅ ᴍᴇʟɪᴏʀᴀ ~ ᴅᴘꜱ (ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴇᴋꜱ)

17 - special delivery

CRACK!

The tip of my pencil snaps, sending a dark streak across my paper. I curse under my breath, opting to switch to a pen after erasing the mark rather than sharpening the pencil for the 5th time this class period.

Stress manifests itself differently in different people. For some, it makes them sweat. For others, it makes them panic. For Amy, it makes her irritable. I, apparently, channel my stress through the intensity of which I use writing utensils.

An unintelligible chatter drones around me as my classmates gossip. A few of their words clasp onto my attention, though not enough to decipher entire conversations. I envy their freedom to waste a class block and curse myself for crafting such a heavy class schedule this semester.

Two girls, one ginger and one brunette, speak directly across me.

"Didn't you hear? He goes to Ridgeway. Yeah, it's..."

"No, not her. I've heard she's easy. He wouldn't..."

Words pour out of my pen and spill across my paper. It's definitely not my best work, but at this point, I don't have time for perfection.

One down, two more to go.

Letter after letter, syllable after syllable, thought after thought, I breeze through as many assignments as I can. I don't dare to look back at what I've written; I know it will only lead to disappointment. Instead, I continue forward, abusing my pen until the ink starts to run sporadically. I trace circles around the corner of my page to try and re-start the ink. That doesn't work, so I switch to larger circles across more of the page. Still nothing.

In my frustration, I scribble across the whole page, leaving behind an indent. The indent isn't the only thing left, though; the ink chooses that moment to make another appearance. Yet another large black streak cuts across my page diagonally, except this time, I can't erase it.

"Ugh!" I grunt, slamming the pen down on my desk.

"Shh!" My ancient teacher hisses from her desk. She lifts a wrinkled finger to her lips and glares from behind thick spectacles.

I push out of my chair, trying not to stomp as I walk to the teacher's desk. I ask to be excused to the bathroom and leave the class.

I feel tears begin to prick at my eyes as I rush down the hall, but I don't dare let them spill over; not until I'm in the bathroom stall, at least.

The second I connect with the porcelain toilet lid, all my pent-up stress and worry come surging forward. A choked sob escapes my throat, causing me to slap a hand over my mouth. The muffled cries aren't much better.

How could I have let myself fall this far? I knew I couldn't handle this much work, even under the best circumstances, which, for those of you who haven't been paying attention, are not the conditions I'm working under. Even in my moments of euphoria, one thing still remains constant: I'm still me. Ivy Albrecht, a girl with 16 years under my belt and nothing to show for it except mediocre grades and an ex-best friend who can't look her in the eye. I strive for something more, but at what cost? Moments like these make me feel entirely at mercy to the world around me. The highs are always high, but the lows fall even deeper. No amount of drinking or boys or anything can change that.

Two more years, that's what I tell myself. Two more years, then I'm free. It's not true, though. I can't even believe the lies I tell myself. I may not be stuck writing countless reports on tragic heroes and their downfalls, but a monotonous 9-5 doesn't sound much better.

The tale of Icarus and his wax wings has always been my favorite example of personal sabotage, rivaled only by Orpheus and Eurydice. Icarus ignored Daedalus's warning to not fly too close to the sun, causing his ultimate downfall within his own myth. But what if he were never given a warning? Would he still have fallen had he not been given the temptation to prove himself? What's more disgraceful: Pushing yourself past your known limits, or not knowing your limits at all?