Nine Deadly Cyns

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Drama / Other
Work in progress
Age Limitation:

Cyn 1

I stared into that vibrant kindergarten classroom, mezmerized by the colorful, foam building blocks. Maybe the building blocks were the only colorful things in that classroom. Maybe they weren't even colorful or foam. They could've been boring, wooden blocks. I keep wanting it to be a colorful memory, but it's all in black and white. I can remember the detatchment from my mother's hand. You might imagine a little kid clinging to their parent, scared of going off on their own. I ran from her in excitement. There is no memory of the look on her face because I know I didn't look back. I was ready to go off on my own and explore. As my hand reached across the table for one of those foam or wooden blocks so did someone elses. I looked up to see a chubby, freckled face with red hair. Next, before I started buidling, someone told me that I wasn't allowed to build anything higher than my shoulders. What happened between then and the time I saw the kid? Did he disappear? Was he the one who told me about this rule? That little peice of memory is now lost in time forever. Then, there was another time gap. My tower of building blocks was finshed and one began to fall onto my head. Did it hit me or was I able to get out of the way in time? Did the block even fall? I guess I'll never know.

Recess was the most unforgettable part of kindergarten. Although, I only have one vague memory of my favorite game. There was a random, giant tire that was distant from the rest of the playground. This tire provided the opprotunity for entertainment. Everyone would form a circle around somebody in the middle. They'd all start off on the tire while the person in the middle would try to tag someone. The kids were allowed to jump off and of course, they weren't allowed to run very far. If anyone had decided to get off of the tire they had to get back on eventually. The person in the middle wasn't allowed to leave until they'd tagged someone. I'm sure my friends and I had played this game more than once, but I only remember playing it one time. It's difficult to believe that this exciting game hadn't been played multiple times. Games of tag were defined by the mulch under my feet, the giggling of kids running around, and the prideful saying,"missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me." Kids loved to play on this blue, green, and purple structure in the middle of the playground. I loved to eat the dirt left by their shoes beside the plastic steering wheel where they would pretend to drive a car or steer a ship. The crunch of the rocks and the texture of the dirt were so pleasing inside my mouth. Once I picked up something soft, disguised by the dirt. I spit whatever it was out immediately after putting it in my mouth. The thought of consuming dirt made me cringe after that traumatic experience. Some days the weather would be there to wipe the smiles off our faces. The sandbox in a dark corner of the classroom was the only thing that made indoor recess enjoyable for me.

One day while I was in class, I actually thought I could cut the desk with scissors. Then, as one can imagine, I got them taken away. Indifference was all I could feel though. Any other kid would've probably thrown a fit. I guess I was a weird kid. There was this one time I shoved a sparkle from my shirt up my nose. We were all sitting on a colorful, yet dim carpet. My mind was telling me that nobody would notice it. To my surprise, some girl pointed it out and sounds of disgust began echoing around me. I kept denying it as I hoped that someone would believe me, but nobody did.

As weird as I was, socializing wasn't difficult. I had like two friends. One of them had done something that our teachers considered "bad." She used profanity. Even then, my young mind knew that those were just words. Despite the fact that her only punishment was getting her name written on the chalk board, I had to stand up for her. I decided to yell at them, not only because she was my best friend, but because something was telling me that that was one of the dumbest reasons for anyone to get in trouble. I think I even stomped on one of their feet. I can remember my friend's ruby red shoes right beside mine. Stomping on people's feet was so fun and amusing to me as a child. The thought that I could hurt someone with my tiny feet brought joy into my soul. I also had another best friend. She always wore striped shirts. In every memory of her it seems as if she's wearing the same exact striped shirt with a tiny heart right beside the left sleeve. That shirt always looked so right with her short, brown hair overshadowing it. I remember fun school events where we'd eat cotton candy, play pacman, get our faces painted, and eat lunches that tastes so much better on field trips right beside each other. I just can't remember if any of that was real.

Enemies were probably more common than friends. There was one girl who I despised and envied. One day she was allowed to give out birthday party invitations in class. There were only two people who weren't invited. Me and some tall dark skinned girl with freckles. Ever since then I'd always felt the need to compete with the girl who's birthday party I didn't get invited to. For every question that was asked I made sure I was first to raise my hand and answer it. Sometimes though, she'd be first to raise her hand. At daycare, I always got the best of my enemies. Except for when we played a game. The rules were that nobody was allowed to move. Out of fairness, we were allowed to blink. Unfortunately, I had shaky hands. My loss was very unfair. I'd win every art contest. A mermaid drawing that resembled Ariel from The Little Mermaid had won a contest, for which there was no prize. That drawing was mine, of course. I'd also won an art contest with a mediocre drawing of two astronauts with square bodies and expressionless faces standing on the moon. That drawing was displayed in an art fair. The spotless, white room it was displayed in would've looked so boring if it weren't for all the art, decorating it temporarily.

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