I hate school
“A good imagination is not an escape from reality but a means to create it.”
— Colin Wilson
I hate school. I hate my father even more than I hate my teachers—because he drags me out into the freezing cold, bombarding me with instructions the entire way:
“Keep your eyes on the teacher. Memorize everything he says. Copy him exactly in everything.”
When I return home, he locks me in my room, turning the key from the outside. The door only opens for meals or urgent necessities like using the bathroom.
“You’re in high school now. All my money is wasted on the endless tutoring fees you drown in every month!”
Trapped within four walls, I watch the cycle repeat—my Arabic tutor enters, then leaves, replaced by the physics tutor, and so on. I sit, suffocating under heaps of words, breaths, and violations.
I stack my books upright but find the arrangement unsatisfactory, so I scatter them, then rearrange them horizontally, only to disrupt them again.
I pick up my geology book, my eyes landing on the lesson about earthquakes and volcanoes. I shut my eyes instinctively. When I open them, I find myself sprawled over the chapter on electric physics.
I slam the books shut and pace the room like a trapped wasp. The books whirl around me, as if chasing me, trying to strangle the air from my lungs. I run, faster and faster, until the dizziness overwhelms me, and I collapse, unconscious, onto the scattered pages.
