I glanced up at the girl who had just sauntered in like she owned the place. She walked straight towards the second-last row, and occupied the corner-most place, adjacent to the wall of the class room. She opened a textbook and concentrated on it. She never spoke much to anyone. She was one of the two daughters of a rich politician and a renowned artist. She thought she was too high-and-mighty to even talk to us, lowly creatures. The freak.
I glanced at her with barely concealed disgust. She managed to project out an expensive and sophisticated air, even in the school uniform, with her expensive Armani jacket even in the summer, Cartier watch, diamond-studded platinum earrings, shoes from Lanvin and a bag from Hermes.
She might have as well had a board with flashing neon lights on her forehead proclaiming, “I’m filthy rich!”
I hated her and I think most of my classmates did. It wasn’t because of what she said or did, it was because of what she didn’t say or do or maybe because most people were envious of her.
I couldn’t help glancing at the girl in the corner, who was completely engrossed in her textbook, even though I’d given the class a free hour. Most of the students were chattering excitedly about the program held at school the previous day, but I’d noticed that she was absent for it.
I couldn’t help but think about her. I had never seen her speaking to anyone, or anyone speaking to her. It was like she didn’t exist for most of them.
Even many of my colleagues thought her to be a stuck-up rich snob, but I wasn’t convinced. I was sure that there was more to her than what met the eye.
I groaned. Yet another day. These days I dreaded waking up. I hoped that one of these days, I would just not wake up, but I don’t think that it is possible.
I hate my school, my class, the teachers, my family, my life. Everything.
I find no point in living, because it is just the same boring existence everyday.
When do my parents even have time for me? My father is busy with elections, party, office, controlling the country, yada yada, that I think that last time he spoke to me was almost a month back.
My mother is holed-up in her studio most of the time.
My elder sister is addicted to drugs and sex, but my parents think that she is the perfect daughter and I’m just the unwanted tag-along. I snorted.
I don’t have a nice family. Fine. How about friends? Friends, you say? I forgot what that word even was.
All those classmates spoke to me only if they needed something done because of my father’s connections, and if they realised that it wouldn’t work out, they forgot me again.
I don’t even remember the last time I smiled, let alone laughed.
Oh don’t worry, it’s the same thing every time.
In fact it happens every time that it’s almost boring.
Tenderly, I pushed up the sleeve of my Armani jacket, which I hated, yet wore it even in the summer, only to hide the years of scarring. I brought my arm up and held the cool metal surface of the blade against the skin. I closed my eyes, and slashed.
This post was written for The Weekly Writing Challenge