The room is rambunctious around me. Three teenage boys are physically fighting at the table beside me. The teacher, oh, she simply doesn’t care anymore. She’s tried, but who can really get young men with no manners to be nice and pleasant and do their work??
You’re sitting there in the middle of all this, just trying to paint. Your brush is in one hand and your palette in the other. You had a presentation that went terribly just before this class. You’re still fuming about your teacher interrupting you twice while you were presenting. What a load of crap that you are in.
You begin ticking, thanks to all the pressure you’re under. Did I mention that your teacher is very strict? She wants your painting–the blending of the acrylic–to be 100% perfect. Your best. Not your mediocre-best. You’re so in your head, that you hardly notice when you try to
You’re so in your head, that you hardly notice when you try to tic with your hand. But then you see the next few seconds in slow motion. The palette tips, but you have to break your knuckle. Then, the palette tilts back the other way and falls.
Instead of falling onto the floor, you catch it but press it against your body in order to save the floor. Your black pants are now covered in paint. You walk over to your teacher, hoping that she could help you, but instead she starts laughing. Maybe she wants to laugh off one of my most embarrassing moments ever?
I ask to go upstairs to the Calming Room and she asks if I’ll be gone long. I shrug. I want to get away from this hellish classroom, but of course, I can’t tell her that–that’d be rude. She tells me to come back soon and I nod. Inside, I know that I won’t be coming back, so I go upstairs and I only come back in around 15 minutes to find my belongings.
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