PROLOGUE
Every day is a battle. I'm heading an army consisting only of myself. I have few reinforcements, few allies; when you have allies, you have one more thing to risk losing. These hallways are filled with risks, every locker a land mine. My heart is a machine gun that's low on ammo. My legs are soldiers riddled with bullet wounds. They say, "Lose the battle, win the war.' Well, that seems entirely unrealistic, when every day is another battle lost. With every step my breath quickens, my heart pounding with a distant ring. I feel underwater, sweat pooling in my palms. The weight of my backpack forces me to lean forward painfully. As my duffel swings around my waist it bounces on my right thigh with every step. I see the black trashcan against the white an gray speckled column, as ugly as it is every other morning. It reminds me of what I'm about to face. In moments I see the walkway between to particular sets of industrial green metal, the tile changing from cream to light gray. The splotchy flecks of black decorating the floor remind me of drops of dried blood gone stale and dry. My shoes squeak deafeningly as I walk directly past my row of lockers, without a pause. I know my fate. My geometry book gains ten pounds on my lower back, my jazz shoes and canister of hairspray dig into my left shoulder. As I yank open the faux wood door of the Spanish classroom, I sigh, but not from relief. The first bell hasn't rung, I haven't even gotten the chance to ask how my partner is when I'm supposed to be telling him how the weather is in a language I'm not familiar with. Yet, I'm already certain that I have lost today's battle.
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December 2019
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