“You see this pen here,” I pick it up, twirl it between my fingers. My voice is thick with pain. I sound exhausted, and drunk from pain.
I squint to see the clock across the room but it’s no use. I check the phone in my pocket for the time.
It’s a little after noon.
I still have a couple hours to go.
“Uh-huh,” my friend replies, looking up from her text book.
I am not coherent enough to figure chemistry out. She’s not smart enough.
I look at the pen. It’s a simple Bic pen, nothing fancy. Clear plastic barrel with the tube of ink in the middle, a metal tip. It’s not even a fancy clicky pen.
Her eyes flick from the pen to mine.
I mime stabbing myself in the neck with the pen and make a choked noise. I hold the tip of the pen a couple inches from my jugular.
“Right in the jugular,” I say, “blood all over my chem homework and book,” I mime with my fingers blood spraying out of my neck, “what a pity,” I mutter.
She laughs and I groan with another wave of pain. I lay my head in my chem book, looking up at her.
The teacher circles us like a hawk, “need help girls?” she asks.
In more ways you can imagine.
I raise my head out of my book, “alright, let’s do this.”