This is my life according to me, emphasizing my relationships with different people. Some things have been changed but most of it is pretty real. The characters are real, so you cannot use them. The story is real because it is a life, and you cannot use someone else's life. Basically, it is all mine. And it is my misery.

I step out of class and avoid peoples' eyes. They turn in my direction, looking at me, though I wish they wouldn't. I do not wish to speak to them. I wish I was alone walking in the hallway. Anywhere, really, but near them. These people mean nothing to me. They are pointless, and of no use to me. Needless to say I am not a social person, yet I am not trying to sound superior. I fear I am below them all. I do not belong, nor do they want me here. The few that might are worse to me than any of the others. The ones who might want me who are labeled my friends. But I do not think of them like that. Not anymore. I feel alone though surrounded by so many others, and this is because there is no understanding. They do not understand me, nor do I understand them, and this fact does not matter because neither party wishes to understand the other. It is better this way.

All of this runs through my head within the span of a few seconds, this time that I use to walk a few meters from my classroom door to the halfway point of the corridor where I am met daily by one of my "friends." She is there today, much to my apathy. My expression does not change even as she smiles at me and says hello. We begin walking to our next class.

"So, Ray-chal, how many people asked about your hand?" she asked, gesturing to where it said "PTB," standing for "Powers That Be," in Sharpie on the outer side of my right palm.

"No one but the people in the circle this morning that saw you write it. No one other than them talks to me," I say honestly.

I am annoyed. Did she really think anyone would care about something written on my hand? There's something there practically every day already and no one seems to care. Was she really that proud that she wrote 3 little letters on my skin with a permanent marker, one that is really extremely easy to wash off? Oh, there was the other hand that read "Studio/Area 51," but no one really cares about full words. The initials were something to find out. Apparently she didn't realize that no one other than our small group talked to me, which meant no one cared about my hands or what was written on them. I'm a social outcast, what do you expect? Is what I wanted to ask.

"Oh," she said and paused just long enough to take a breath or two. We had begun passing the windows that lined the one side of the hallway. They did not give a view of the outside world, but rather a wall about 10 feet away, and a drop to the first floor. People often stood near the windows to look down upon the other people walking below. This being the case, this area of the hallway was always crowded. Walking without hitting into people was tough. My annoyance level rose another notch.

"So what's up?" she asked.

I hate when she asks that. As simple a question as it seems, how often it is used by the other teens, she overuses it.

"Nothing," I reply, my usual.

"Nothin'? Nothin' at all?" she said in her squeaky little questioning voice.

"Nothing is ever new, Gesina," I say.

"Yuh huh," she retorts childishly.

"Nope," I say and end the argument before it got into something bigger.

She paused again. We were almost past the windows now.

"So what's up?"

I absolutely hate it when she fills the empty space with those words. There is no point to asking over and over when they've already answered you once. Obviously my response is never good enough for her so she feels the need to try again to get a better one. Either that or she realizes there is nothing else for us to say, or for her to say since I usually say nothing, and she fears the silence. Why not just let there be silence? Why does it bother her so much? It wouldn't kill her to let some kind of quiet fall between us, even if the halls were impossibly loud with other peoples' voices and there could be no absolute silence.

I begin having a vision. I often have visions and I often later wish I had carried them out. I didn't expect this one to be any different. This one is of me, so utterly frustrated with my "friend" that I turn to the wall of windows, raise my fist and swing as hard as I can, crashing through them. The glass shatters and flies everywhere, even onto the people walking below who are so ignorant as to what is going on that they have no time to cover their heads or run. People hit with the flying razor-like objects are now bloodied and I laugh as I look at them. "A little bigger than a BB hole, huh?" I say, and walk in the direction of my next class, waiting to be taken by security. "Lock me up, I know I'm crazy. I don't give a fuck," I'd say. "It's better than this."

This vision flies through my head in the span of a second, and in this time we have passed the wall of windows are now next to solid wall. I show no emotion on my face and give no sign of my true feelings, which I don't normally do anyway. I feel many things on the inside; people just never see them. It's always better not to give yourself away. Un-revealed to my companion, my frustration turns to sickness with the silent crunch of the window in my head. I replay my vision and see myself attempt to break the window with my fist, but only end up with a busted hand. Naturally this is the way it would have been. I bite the inside of my lip.

In this moment I hate myself.

Walking down the hallway, the silence only a few seconds deep is broken like the glass in my vision.

"So what's up?" she asks again, and I've lost count by now.

"Nothing," I reply, and my sickness reaches its peak.