Exterior, House. As we zoom in on the silvery sunlight streaming through the window of a teenage girl, we notice the deadened silence permeating the cluttered comfort of her bedroom. Then, a twinkling, however quite disruptive, noise rings out. Her alarm, we quickly ascertain. A single hand slithers out from underneath a lifeless rumple of quilts and pillows, fumbling around idly, seeking a return to the prior period of peace. Amending itself to “5-more-minutes,” it slides over the smooth buttons of the alarm and hits reset. This process repeats itself for several minutes and just when it seems like the lazy limb will be granted the solace of restorative slumber, sudden motion from under the mound splinters the clouded haze of sleep that has shielded this figure from the day. The blankets are pulled aside abruptly. Our protagonist has decided that it is time to get up, and it seems that not even the seductive nature of a memory foam mattress will get in her way. She seems unaffected by her sudden deviation, shifting easily from blurred revery to the troublesome drudgery of getting ready for the day. We hear the dull skid of drawers and the shuffling of fabric as she carefully deliberates which costume to assume today: Beaded gown? Feathered fascinator? She seems to have chosen a woven sweater and jeans, which will just have to do. Now, without much strain we can listen to the quiet rain of the shower, and, not long after, the tell-tale slide of slippers descending the staircase. She brushes her teeth almost immediately after happening upon the bathroom, a step out-of-order for anyone without the compulsive tendencies of our poignant protagonist, yet the peace of mind that a minty mouth grants is well worth the disorder. A breakfast is assembled and quickly dispatched with, as our bright-eyed student makes merry conversation with her mother and teeth are brushed once again, as too-clear eyes shift worriedly towards the clock. As time marches on, insistent on bringing NOW and TIMEFORSCHOOL together, our less-than patient protagonist finishes, compiling all the personal effects and supplies required for a successful day. These mainly consist of various nonessential utensils, whose sole purpose are to ease the neverending line of what-if’s that march persistently through her mind. 6 backup pencils, 2 granola bars, an emergency shot of epinephrine, a stapler, and a nail file are among the list of items that clutter the pockets and hidden corners of her satchel. Clutching her bag and popping into the car in an agitated fervor, she is more visibly nervous now. The persistent movement of the hair band contorted in a tangled dance on the edges of her fingers hums a rhythm of apprehension: Twist...Snap. Twist... Snap. Twist…Snap. We can almost feel the humming of blood in her veins as her heart rate quickens, adding yet another melody to her disquieting chant. The tremor in her hands becomes more violent. Confusing, as in the face of seeming terror, she does not waiver in her goal: she must get to school and conquer the day. This is not up for discussion. Despite the varying degrees of palpitations that reverberate through her body, she swiftly arranges her features into a neat smile, and when her mother pulls up to the school, she bravely advances into the fray.
The day is normal. A collection of moments.
My shoes squeak uncomfortably. The lockers are arranged like teeth, grinning at the chaos of the hallway. “Remember, it’s due Friday!” Fluorescent lights and concrete walls highlight the evolution of industrial commercialism. The screeching of the bell is masked by a chorus of groans. “How’d it go?” It is difficult for me to relax. Cordial conversations melt into obscurity. “Ugh.. Miserably.” My smile is the window through which I can perceive my peers: through it, their piercing gazes and taunting giggles are unassuming and kind, safe from the warped perception of my panic-stricken mind. Remember: Synecdoche, Side-Angle-Side, Seneca Falls. The taste of green tea and the smell of disinfectant. I talk for what feels like hours. 123,456. 123,456. The school is like a beating heart, thrumming with life, bursting with students, squeezing tightly through each vein and artery in search of... something. They tap their feet and yearn for freedom. “Qu’est qui se passe?” My graphite snaps and I start over. We still can’t find what we are looking for.
A series of transitions, marked by the ring of institution. We zoom out and out and out, get farther and farther away. Interior, Self. We found it: The End.
Mary Ciarrochi