Upon exiting the stairwell, I am overcome with a sense of peace aside from the loud cries overpowering the thoughts in my head. This howling is distracting, and depicts a vague atmosphere around me. I begin to slouch into the corner of the hallway, and am reminded that I am no longer invisible anymore. Besides, there is nobody here to ignore me, which proves to be more soothing than being around a group of cagey birds like myself. I stand fixed at the start of the hallway, listening to the sweet, and comforting rhythm of the heater, and the tapping of keys as students type feverishly in the room behind me. I look towards the first closed door, and into the abandoned classroom, where a serious of crippled seats are arranged in rows facing the busted window. The last time I was even brought within a few feet of a classroom was when I was back on the Colombia. I was around nine years old, just before the time when those government agents came and took everything away from Papa. Mamma sent me to go learn some fancy skills, like she was forced to do when she was living back in town with the white folk. I followed Mamma's orders a few times, but my real passion was poking salmon like Papa. The howling progresses as I reminisce about my the days when I was back home.
A breeze passes and directs my attention towards a series of crooked pictures hung on the stained wall. Retired teachers' time dedicated to the hierarchical oriented school is remembered by acknowledging their part in the creation of the system. A system that favored, and benefitted all students, or as Nurse Ratchet would declare, it's of therapeutic value. I can detect an almost uncanny resemblance between the strict aspects of the combine ran by Nurse Ratchet, and the bitter feeling that the lonely hallway gives. The emphatic cries continue as I observe the dusty pictures.
The originally dim lights flicker, and the occasional handprint on a door glistening in the light appears. This door is darker than the rest, presenting a superior presence than the remaining ones. Although its a few weeks past Christmas, a few wilting ornaments lay delicately along the hinges, and are connected to the line of spotted pictures above the door. I slide my hand along the wall, comforted by the constant vibration of the walls caused by the hymn of the machinery. I come across a large wood-stained board, with engraved lettering, that lists past winners of specific academic awards. An overwhelming feeling of pity arises for the victims of this refined system. I can only think back to the Big Nurse's orderly system that consists of terrorizing us patients to the brink of
psychasthenia. My mind races as I evaluate all of the Nurse's chicanery until finally, the howling subsides, and peace is restored to the hallway.
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