Read My Angel :: Disturbed | Tapas Community

I do not know how to read.

For some reason, the Seniors are placing me in a remedial class with both little Ms. coral-eyed girl and her Mr. dark-eyed boy.

Instructor Sr. Zen and Mr. dark-eyed boy look upon me as they would a pest.

Ms. coral-eyed girl is still… unreadable.

“This is my chance!” my angel pipes up, “He will submit.”

“How can he not?” my angel harps, “The boy will realize my potential. Adorable, thoughtful, strong… What more is there?”

How about disturbed?

I roll my eyes. Does she not realize our situation? I look like a deranged girl with a laced-up face compared to the Ms. over there.

She looks like a doll.

A quiet, sensible, well-mannered doll. It is no wonder the dark-eyed boy has fallen for her.

Yes, it is quite obvious he has.

Well, obvious to those that are not my angel. She carries hope with her.

The hope of a bizarre beast…

I sit here between them; Mr. and Ms. The rage that emanates from the dark-eyed boy is palpable. It is not my doing! Senior Mark insists. Besides, Sr. Zen gives difficult lectures. Senior Mark believes this arrangement will help me further myself.

Ms. not only reads but writes well, and the boy is not far behind. Sr. Zen praises them, as if on a loop. I, on the other hand, get muddled. My hands tremor at the sight. The written word elicits a fear in me. I do not know how to write, for I do not know what I write. Sr. Zen detests this. His disdain often looms over me. Reading and writing are meant for the Seniors! It is rare to teach the children. Why am I here? I hate this!

I… do not like myself… in this place… I feel… small.

I want to see my friend.

As I do most days, once class concludes, I race to him, avoiding eyes, eyes seemed formed from walls. Today is unexpected.

The dark-skinned silent boy and the little dark-skinned girl are at the entrance to the athenaeum.

I keep my head down and try to bypass them. The little girl grabs me. She has quite a grip! The silent boy approaches from behind.

“Stop this,” the silent boy bids of me, “He is done.”

“What do you mean?” I respond, avoiding contact.

“That boy is dead,” the silent boy circles me, “Let him rest.”

He stops in front of me and lifts my chin. He pauses, his eyes on me.

“Do you hear me?” he asks, “Do you understand?”

…

“You can not force it,” the silent boy pulls me in, “He. Is. Gone.”