Scholastic Awards 2012-Honorable Mention

The shadows dance, the darkness overwhelming, the ominous flicker of light that illuminates my barren prison. The bars shroud my sadness; the overwhelming pit of despair that is grows larger with every passing minute. My prison a school, a school where bullies rule, were kids walk with their hardened glares, the gay laughter that erupts from the cliques, the constant reminder of who I don't belong with. But I alone in the corner deemed within my prison. Forced to sit here, and watch the happiness, the laughter, the joy of people that don't accept me.
The people who aren't like me, the people I'll never be.  My pale uniform sucked of color, hung off me. My skirt almost to my knee's, the droning heat all it does is remind of what I once had. What I've believed to never have again. Acceptance.
But for the first time in many weeks, in those many horrifying months; instead of being locked inside myself, barred from hope. I opened my eyes, and as if for what seemed like for the first time I saw. I was free of the bonds that held me, free from the dizzying pain, the overwhelming sadness. Freed from my emotional prison, were the light flickered and the darkness overwhelmed. I was free.
It was a day unlike no other, stifled by sadness I approached the endless drone called a classroom, I sat my fingers drumming on the hard sleek wood of the desk. The teachers voice boomed, I no longer cared to listen, his voice held no meaning. He would be like any other teacher, his gaze would pass over the dark, thin girl sitting by herself in the corner. She would return the memorized gaze with sad dark eyes, slight sympathy would wash over him for a millisecond but he would continue his lecture, pretending not to notice. But unlike other teachers, his gaze never left mine. I returned it with silent beseeching eyes that pooled with silent tears and for once, I listened.
"For this unit, we'll be working on story writing. Everyone is required to do it, no one in this class will go without turning there papers into me. This rule goes for every student. If you do not have the required materials, I'll provide them to you." his voice wavered, his steel colored eyes stern but nonetheless shone with happiness. I felt a sudden sense of yearning, if only I could feel the flight of happiness, the welcoming heat of hope.
But I was once more swallowed by misery, for I would never be unbarred from my prison.
"Story telling is a forgotten art, many lack the skill of writing. But the few who possess the skill are unthinkable. Their talent's surpass many, and I am here to train such children in the art of literature. Writing is a way to express yourself, to show other's how you feel. Like many have done before you." his voice was carried with a boom across the room, it foreshadowed the slight chatter of the students. There tones ended in a hush whisper, as they directed there attention towards him.
It was like music to my ears. The way he could  simply explain this foreign world of writing. As his words flew together in a silent stream of passion,  he explained every detail, every fragment. We were given a piece of lined paper and a number two pencil. I stared blankly, the idea slowly formed, it grew and grew. I felt a slight rise of hope. My pencil flew across the paper; as I wrote of a girl who no longer had hope, who no longer felt joy in her life and felt no longer cared about. A girl who suffered from the worst kind of depression, Loneliness.
For that girl was me, the girl who sat in a corner with sad, dark eye, and messy black hair, the girl who was locked inside of herself with no place to go. The girl whose days dragged on and on, for the sadness was truly destroying her. Days later, his class was no longer a place where I sat, fighting back tears, and trying to escape the pain. It became my haven. Every word, every reassuring smile, every question he called on me to answer. It suspended the pain.  The pain that was eating away inside of me, that deemed me into a agonizing state of mind. Weeks later, our stories were returned, grooved with numerous editing marks, and helpful suggestions. Everyone had received one, everyone except me.
"Emily, can I speak to you in the hallway?" his voice held a forbidding tone, his steel colored eyes were unreadable. I nodded slowly rising from my seat; I followed him into the hallway, nerves coiled tightly in my stomach, my teeth clenched as I rubbed my palms against the plaid lines of my skirt.
"I just wanted to talk to you about your short story." his voice warm, which helped soothe the strangled nervousness in my stomach. I breathed deeply, inhaling and exhaling. I had hoped he hadn't hated it, for it was something I'd worked so diligently on. I nodded once more,
"It was…  truly amazing, your word's enlightened me, you truly possess the talent." his voice rough as he happily patting me on the back. And for the first time in many months, I smiled, and the unfamiliar rush of happiness.  

"You really think so?" I wondered aloud, a sudden blaze of hope fixated it's self within me, shining evermore.

"Oh, I know so." he reassured me, a shadow of smile danced on his lips. The happiness was overwhelming as it surged through me. . For the first time, something had gone right. "But one more thing, I have a question." his voice settled at an alarming worried pitch, his eyes hardened, I knew what to come wasn't good.

"Yes?" I asked curiously, my voice felt as if I hadn't spoken for such a long time with emotion. My voice no longer carried pitches of pain and sorrow. But it rose with hope, as I basked in the sunlight of praise.

"I've noticed, how in every period you sit alone, lunch is another horror for you. Emily, you are the girl in the story, Aren't you?" his voice softened, his eyes beseeched curiosity as his gaze met mine. Gray eyes met cold hard, black ones,  strangled sobs escaped from my throat, a tear rolled down my cheeks my months of misery and agonizing despair fell in the rolling tears. I nodded slowly,

"There's only one thing I can say, Emily, you have a talent. No one can take that away from you. Everyone is given a talent, but you my dear you have been given the gift of writing. Your only in seventh grade, but you write with the wisdom of many years above." his voice comforted, my tears suspended I brushed them away. But soon I was filled once more with tranquility. I was good at something. A sudden thrill of happiness, stirred inside of me.
A feeling I hadn't felt in so long, but for the most part, I couldn't even remember why I was sad in the first place. My parents made a effort to get me to talk, to be happy. But I shoved it away with scorn. Had anything happened to me? No. Nothing had happened. So, why was I said sad? I pondered the question, coming up with an answer. I was sad because I'd felt alone, uncared about, I felt if no one understand my whirl of emotions. But this is when I realized, writing opens a whole different world.

The way my fingers flew over the keyboard, the way the soft unspoken words were alight with color. This is what freed me from my prison, from the undying hope that shrouded me. Writing. Behind the words written, are worlds that open to a new undying flame of hope. It's strength shielded me from the words of hate, the undying passion I had for it gave me life.
The more intrigued I became, the more the bleak depression disappeared. And then a welcoming beam of light shone like a beacon leading me to happiness. No longer was I overwhelmed by darkness and misunderstanding, but now I basked in the light of happiness. Something that to this day, made everything worth while. I would never be grasped again by the tendrils of depression, the growing sadness, the sickening despair. Don't let it swallow you, don't live in the darkness where light flickers and emotional pain shrouds. Fight, to escape, happiness overwhelms sadness. For it is a true poison to the toxin that your are suspended in. Always remember, you are good at something, discover your talent, embrace it.