Untitled,Wesley Young

As I walk down the empty hall, it gives me a feeling of restriction, as though no matter which direction I walk in or stairway I go up, I'll be trapped inside the isolating and depressing walls of the demonic institute that can be described as high school. As I walk down the hall approaching my locker of dismay and disorder, I see a door my that sets off a rush of memories from my childhood. It was a spring day, a Thursday like any other Thursday with people trying to recover from the disaster of Wednesday. I recall it was the last period of the day, and I was in a moderate mood considering the cage-like classroom I was sitting in...math. The meniacal dictator returned math projects of doom, as she handed me ine without even giving me a look of acknowledgement. I thought maybe there was a chance that she would nod her head at least and give me the fulfilling feeling of knowing I did well without seeing my grade. She didn't. As the depression set in, I peeled back the front cover, and it sucked my soul into the ink that read 6 1/3, the grade absorbed more than my soul, it absorbed all the hopes and dreams I had of passing math. As I stand outside of the classroom of death in the hallway of evil, I shake my head and turn to go to the weird and wacky writing center.