The school halls are crowded; the voices bounce off the walls and blur into a constant murmur. I wonder if they take a breath or just go until they start seeing the dancing dots in their vision before realizing they should stop talking about themselves and ask about their friends’ lives. I take a breath and step into the chaos. I slide by a couple at their lockers. A room would really be helpful right now, preferably away from the public eye. Finding a clearing, I am finally able to retreat to my peace, the floor. I stare at it and quickly brush by the other students. So far, I haven’t been able to figure out the pattern the floor tiles make.

In any case, I face another crowd and slip into it. “Sorry,” I mutter as my elbow nudges someone aside. I hear their tongues click in contempt. I hiss under my breath and brave the rest of the irritable students.

“I can’t believe he hit me.” My eyes spin around, trying to find the owner of the voice. I spot her, someone younger than me, with powder trying to cover the darkness around her left eye. I grimaced at the sight. She was so young, maybe a freshman. Her soft voice could make the iciest jade hearts melt and pour tears. “I thought he loved me.”

“Maybe he does,” starts one of her friends, her arm is on the wounded girl’s shoulder. “He’s just going through hard times.” I turn away roughly and slide through an opening in the crowd. I don’t want to hear more, disgusted already. Why should one make up excuses for another’s bad behavior? Why is violence excused, even in ‘hard times’?

I reach my locker, finally. My neighbor has his back toward me. “She’s going to kill me,” he starts. “Man, I am dead.” Another voice replies, “Good luck man, and at least she only shouts at you, at least she’s only a woman. My dad…” The voice trails off. I can imagine him shrugging, casting it off as the norm, something one has to get used to.

“Yeah,” my neighbor replies and slams his locker shut and walks off.

I frown. What are we learning from our parents? Who else can we turn to when we’re born into and live with such nonsense? I throw on my headphones. My fingers slip and I hear the radio. “Teens are dead after a shooting…” I hurriedly switch on my CD. The music starts, the vibrations numb my ears. I can’t hear the voices anymore. The warm headphones, my saviors. I sigh and turn back to the mass. We are dying, I realize. Every day, every one of us is dying. The faces around me, no two alike with no two lives alike, and yet, we face the same problems. What can we do? How can we fight? We’re only kids.

I slide into the mass again and follow the current to class.