Isn't it ironic that "We're In Heaven" is playing on the radio as I'm sitting in the middle of hell? My lungs are pushing themselves so hard against my ribs that I can hear them cracks against the soulful tune. My foot taps three times faster than the beat as my shaking hands fidget in my lap.

The cracks from my neck sounds like gun shots in the quiet of the room.

I'm waiting. For what, I don't remember. I don't know if it's about the grades I'm failing, or fifth late I've had to English because I can't pass her in the hall, so I wait in the bathroom until the bell rings to leave, or the fact that her new boyfriend caught me slitting my wrist over the sink in the second story bathroom and ratted on me because of his Goddamn perfect guilty conscience.

A light flickers.

My fingernails reach under my hoodie to pick at a scab and I swat my own hand away before someone else can. The bandages on my forearms itch more than every anxiety attack before now. I force my eyes to blink. Normal people blink. My tear-ducts fill and my eyes burn until I press my black and bloody sleeve against my eyes to stop the water from falling.

The guidance office door opens with the creak from a haunted house and closes with the slam from an angry cop film. The song still hasn't changed, and I still don't know what I'm waiting for.

When my father found out that she'd dumped me because of the scars on my thighs and the blood on my hands, he told me that she was the greatest thing about me. His words ring in my ears and rattles inside of my skull.

A light flickers.

The ironic tune is still the soundtrack to my misery. The acoustics blow against the back of my head, causing the short hairs to stand on edge and my eye to twitch violently as the soft sounds make my spine burn with hidden anger.

My fingernails pick off the scab. I don't even notice until a warm wetness suddenly runs down my wrist. My eyes flash up to the closed office door that hides my fate as the crimson snakes its way down my palm and onto my middle finger, gently dripping onto the floor. Another drop falls onto the filthy white of my old black converse.

I never realized how much I loathe this song until now.

The eyes I've felt on me the entire time I've been waiting in this dull white room tell me that it's time to go inside. My knees creak as I stand, hunched over like usual. My eyes never leave the ground as I sloth into the dark room, only to hear about the colleges I will never live long enough to attend.