Author's Note: Well, I guess this is it. I'm jumping on to probably the longest story I'll write. Unless my attention span fails me, and I abandon this, like I've done with a thousand other stories ever. Heh, I might actually work my butt off on this. This chapter might be a little slow, but it all picks up speed really fast, so hopefully I don't kill anyone out of boredom with this. Oh well~!! References List at the bottom, since, I guess I let my fandoms slip too hard into my stories.

Warnings For This Chapter: Teenage Angst, Boredom, Expository Inner Monologues, Anime/Manga/Comic/Book/Cartoon/TV Show and Movie References, Sporadic Cursing, Dark Twisted and Creepily Accurate Views On The American Educational and Healthcare System. Oh, right, and a lot of Friedrich Nietzsche-Wannabe-ness.

Tug. Tug. Tug…

Blah blah blah, Imaginary Numbers, Blah blah, blaaaaah, Complex Equations, blaaaaaah….

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock…

Some days I wondered, if there would come a day when my boredom would cause me to commit an incredibly stupid action. Jumping out of this God-forsaken third floor classroom seemed like a good idea. But of course, knowing my luck, I wouldn't simply pummel to the ground and die in an unpleasant splatter of body parts. I'd land, alive, yet broken, and spend months bound to a hospital bed, after which I'd be sent to a mental facility to try and weed out the reasons for my "attempt".

I was tired.

I was tired of slowly progressing through a school system that bored me by undermining my abilities and interests. I was tired of the talking behind my back, of the whispered accusations of madness, of the worry my parents showed.

But most of all, I was bored.

Bored with life, which seemed to never have anything worth my energy. Bored with unchallenging classes, even though I had already skipped two grades. I was bored, because there seemed that there was nothing interesting around. I was too young for anything. I couldn't travel the world. I couldn't get involved in any super-secret organization. I was no Bender, no Val, or even a witch. All those fantastic universes, the worlds of magic, spirits, and life. These places didn't exist, so I had resigned myself.



And so I stayed glued to my seat, staring absently at the board and copying down notes on mathematical progresses that I already knew. And drawing the sign for the Hallows. In all honesty, I knew there was a world out there waiting for me. But I was stuck inside this closed circle, bored, annoyed.

And it seemed like I had entered an endless recursion of time.

Every day, drowned out by routine. Every day, spaced out between school, and home. No friends. No one to keep me occupied, for they all seemed to shy away from me.

Though I guess the last one was my fault.

No one wanted to talk to me, because I was so taciturn. I know, I showed no feeling and that my voice barely rose or fell from normal speaking levels. It unnerved those who tried to know me. I know, deep inside, they pitied me. They thought it would help, to give me a tentative friend.

I pulled my sweater's hood further up my head.

It was better to be left alone.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

And so the madness of time marched on, slowly, painstakingly. It broke me, having to live that way. I longed for real life, for the joys of freedom.

But I felt it would never come.

Tug. Tug. Tug.

Small piles of black hair, my black hair, started to become visible between the dirty linoleum tiles of the classroom floor. My hand twitched, and I forced it down. I had to stop. It was starting to show.

I didn't know where it had come from, the hair thing. It was weird, messy, and most of all, not normal. And it showed.

People who cut themselves, they could hide it under long sleeves, long jeans.

People who pinched their skin, they did it in places that were always covered. The bruises, they could be hidden under make-up.

But I, I pulled my hair. Not from anywhere inconspicuous. Not my legs, which I always had jeans over. Not my arms, covered comfortably by my favorite sweaters. Not even my "private" areas, which I could have passed off as a very good wax job. No.

I pulled the hair out of my scalp.

And, after two months, it was starting to show.

It wasn't like I didn't know what would come afterwards.

The school would be the first to notice. After all the stupid in-school massacres, suicides, and scandals, I knew I was one of the main targets of scrutiny. They were waiting for a sign, a reason for which to fear I would snap. And then they would intervene.

My parents would be notified. They would come in, preoccupied, because they felt that something was wrong. The councilor lady would come in to the room, my parents on either side of me, and sit across her government-bought desk. She would simile and explain that it was normal for kids to hurt themselves.

In my head, I would say that it didn't really hurt.

She would then go on to explain that the law demanded that I be referenced to a mental clinic, for further analysis.

In the clinic, I'd be subjected to endless questioning. The type of question where there would be no right or wrong answer, because they would all lead to the same conclusion. I was mentally unstable, according to the definitions of the term, and I had developed a self-harming anxiety-related disorder in a manner of a defense mechanism. This would lead them to begin prescribing medications, mind-numbing chemicals that would turn me into either a completely normal person, or into a drone, an empty shell, with not even my thoughts to comfort me.

Knowing my luck, it would be the second option.

My parents would freak. They'd demand I be sent to an institution for "proper" care. I'd be stuffed inside a room with ten other little shits, all with their own Freudian excuse for their actions.

When they asked me why I was there, I would simply reply that I had been bored.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock…

The bell's loud ringing announced the end of my daily torture, bringing another empty, meaningless day to a close. Slowly, I began to put away my notebook, stuffing it carelessly inside my backpack, not caring to write down the homework. I had already memorized the page and exercise numbers; there really wasn't any point to me writing it down. People from the seats behind me pushed me out of the way as I slung my bag over my shoulder, and readjusted my sweater's sleeves. I liked to bunch them up around my elbows, showing my wrists, showing my dark tanned arms, if only to make it easier for me to silently point to my completely scar-free skin, should anyone question my reasons for being so quiet and always wearing my sweaters. And, yes, this did happen often enough that I had decided to implement that measure.

After a while, people get tired of making up rumors, and they just forget you exist. The only times I was ever mentioned in school was when a teacher would come up to congratulate me on a good test, or on something equally stupid. That was beginning to happen less often as the year progressed, because most teachers seem to realize that I don't really give a fuck about their class right around this time. Whenever Mr. Lewis, my World History teacher would hand out the test scores, he'd furrow his brows at me, as if I had done something wrong by getting the top grades of the class while apparently paying no attention.

But I did pay attention. I just did it in a way most would find unorthodox, at best.

If there was one thing I was good at, it was in my strategizing. I would strip a teacher down to their most basic features and teaching methods. Lewis, he was conventional. Everything came right out of the book. So by just reading the textbook, I was able to relate information in the text to the way he delivered it during lectures.

Mathematics, though, were a different thing.

In math, you needed logic, something my already under-stimulated brain gladly appreciated. But there still wasn't enough material in one textbook to keep me occupied throughout the year. I'd finish all the problems in a text in about two months, maybe three, if I was lazy, and I knew I could do it faster if I felt like it. So by the time January rolled around, I had already covered an entire semester of material, and had absolutely no need to pay attention anymore. So I dug a comfortable enough wedge into my backpack, and laid my head down for the whole class period, with the exception of tests, which I (sadly) needed to be awake for.

Not even I had managed to beat the human need for consciousness.

I don't think my parents knew, back then, what really went on in my life. They both worked. My mother was an accountant, and my father a defense attorney. They cared very little for anything more than my grades, and thus, it overjoyed them when I had come home, not once, but twice, with notices of my school administration's decision to bump me up a grade. I had everything, as you may well imagine. Top of the line laptop, with all the upgrades and add-ons available at the moment, 64 gigabyte iPod Touch, a Gibson USA Grabber II Bass guitar, and my room was cluttered to no end with clothes and shoes I didn't really want or need, but that my parents felt I deserved because of all my "hard work".

I think they were trying to compensate for their horrendous parenting skills.

I marched out of the classroom, luckily avoiding a group of fake blondes in skimpy (as much as the school dress code allowed) outfits, who had lately taken to snickering at the state of my baggy, gender-confused clothes, and, on occasions when my hood wasn't on, at the way I had cut my hair, in a choppy, haphazard sort of way, letting it reach only about an inch below my shoulder. And it also didn't help that I had a permanent bed-head, and that I really didn't care enough to fix it.

My mother would berate me on this, of course, but not too much, for she felt that as long as I looked presentable enough for my dad's law firm parties, whatever I felt like wearing any other day was not important in the least. Thank God for this, or else I might actually have been forced into one of those skirts she had pointed out at the mall the other day.

3:20 pm was, without a doubt, a major highlight in my day. Since I could not drive, I was forced to walk or take the bus to… wherever I felt like going that day. I was not needed until 7:00, when my parents got home from work. So I usually just wandered around town, sometimes sitting down in the park to doodle aimlessly, and other times, I would brave the endless bus ride to Westfield Plaza, the local mall. I would blend in with the crowds easily, and thanks to my endless amount of pocket money, I was never discouraged from buying something, usually a book, or a new anime DVD set. Also, it was mildly amusing to scare the customers at Macy's by hiding in the clothes racks and growling when they got too close.

That day, I decided to just go home and practice on my guitar.

Someone please remind me why I didn't just go to the mall.


Bender: People with Elemental powers, as in the Western Animated show Avatar: The Last Airbender

Val: Drow (Dark Elf decendant) Noble, from the Webcomic Drowtales: Moonless Age

Witch: As in, the witches and wizards from the Harry Potter series.

Endless Recursion of Time: MEME-TASTIC line from the Anime show The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya, from the equally MEME-TASTIC Endless Eight Arc.