She didn’t hate them. How could she? Does one hate an infant for pulling their hair or crying? No, she could not hate these infants in the bodies of high school students. Those of her classmates,’ in fact. They are ignorant of what they do and whom they do it too. Just as a flock of yellow chicks will literally tear apart a brown one in their midst, these adolescent chickens who call themselves teenagers peck at anyone they see as different. As long as they do not touch her writing, she would tolerate their cruelty and mocking jibes at her clothing, face, hair, or hobbies. Just leave her to her writing and she would be alright.

Each morning, like this one, she rose at six and arrived at the school building at seven, a good forty minutes before the bell binding them to the role as students rang. She sat at a full table, lover and friends surrounding her on three sides, betrayer behind at the next table with another of his betrayed. She paid him no heed. She didn’t care. Let them be fools and throw their lives away. Just leave her to her writing and she would be alright.

Electric bell is when she works swiftly and silently on the computer , leaving time for her writing. No teacher could complain. After all, was she not a model student? Silent, clean, and efficient in her work? True, they wished she could work with her peers, but they could not truly complain when she didn’t. She was a loner and they had to face that fact. Just leave her to her writing and she would be alright.

Book bell comes around and she moves on to her next class, dealing to her favored art. English class is the one she speaks in, speaking to the teacher, speaking to the books. Again she works on her own, but here she breathes with ease. This is her element. Silence would improve it, but she cannot control the will of the others, who intrude on her peace. Bus she doesn’t really care. Just leave her to her writing and she would be alright.

Break bells comes to send her to lunch, where she sits again with lover and friends, only in a smaller group without betrayer or his betrayed. It is quieter here, except on Fridays, when they roll in the speakers and her pencil dances along with the music, the rush spilling from her blood to the paper. The food endangers her work, but she doesn’t care as long as no harm comes to it. Just leave her to her writing and she would be alright.

Torture bell banishes her to the windowless room to change clothes before being humiliated in front of her fit peers, who don’t care what their words and actions do to one another. Her ears close and her muscles scream, the weights she bears daily becoming physical and made of lead. But time speeds and she returns to the windowless room and her notebooks. Just leave her to her writing and she would be alright.

Switching bell sends her to learn numbers and people, how the two should never mix. It brings laughter or anger to her peers, depending on the day. Numbers keep them from their friends and sports, while people send them down winding roads of debate and war. Quietly she sits and works, always ahead of the mass. Just leave her to her writing and she would be alright.

Freedom bell releases her, but becomes doom bell when she is pulled out by her peers. They grab her notebook in just and throw it away, away from her fingers and her mind. Tolerance snaps and gives way to rage. Old lessons surface and blood flows. Red blood, blue blood, blood of her peers. If only they had known. Just leave her to her writing and they would be alright.