There’s never anything worthwhile enough to even bother trying to remember what happens most school days. Any attempts at learning something are in vain-- each moment forgotten as it happens, nothing so out of the ordinary as to break from the routine.

Most days, that is.



“Uh, Miss Sokolov? Let me take a look at your wrist.”



“Well, if her father doesn’t answer and her mother isn’t in the picture, I don’t know who else to call.”



“Try one more time, I don’t want to get DCF involved just for cutting.”

The words were no more than a repulsive pity for the poor girl they just wish wouldn’t have gotten caught.


“I promise you he’s not gonna answer. Can I just go back to class?“ 



Even as she asked the question she knew she wasn’t going to return regardless of the counselor’s answer. No, she wanted to leave-- to leave this place and never come back. 
It’s better off that way. She realized that now. 


At the very thought the world seems to fall out from under her feet, only brought back into the present by the sudden crash of her hands against the locker in an attempt to steady herself.
 Aria squeezes her eyes shut tightly, is she in the moment or the memory? 



She grasps around the empty space of her locker, pushing aside broken pencils and unopened books until she feels the familiar comfort of cool metal in her palm. She unscrews the cap and downs what little was left in the flask. 


Aria swallows hard then tosses it to the floor, the echo of its clang against linoleum tile resounding through the empty hall. 
She reaches up then, feeling her headphones around her neck-- a reminder of reality. 

It wasn’t an old memory or a dream, that really just happened. Fuck.
They were really going to call some stuffy social services people on her mere months before she’s legally an adult. 
FUCK. 

Aria kicks out at the locker. An act of defiance, of desperation. 



She’s gotta get out of here.