In true Llyrai style:
The paper in front of me is stained with words I’m not sure I understand. Half-written, this text represents a regurgitation of information someone somewhere has decided that I must know. It’s a poor excuse of intellect.
Yet all around me, students who’ll freely give away their identity, their independence to be judged, scribble down all they know, in a manner they were taught, to people who will not appreciate them.
I scribble with them. Hands numb with command, pained with force. Fingers are bleeding. My pen rests upon the corn that has now been torn off the finger it has grown to love over the past six years in high school. The blood; it doesn’t drip, ripple or pour. It leaks our from under my skin, as if scarce, as if rare.
It’s stained my pen; the rubber grip designed for the very purpose of preventing such an incident is now sticky with blood. Imprints of blood, of blood, of blood. Test Paper, awarded with blood, emergency pens, stained with blood. I can smell it, feel the warmth it contained.
My finger throbs with numbness.
