Although still shaking with anger, she manages to bite her tongue. The laughter echoes around her, but she remains strong, silent. If only she could escape... but no, two more minutes. She can hold out that long.

In her head, she begins calculating the amount of things one could do in two minutes.

In two minutes, I can run a quarter of a mile.
I can listen to 'She's a Rebel' by Green Day, or hear 'Song of the Century' two times over.
I could peel a banana.
I could turn on my computer.
I could write a few- no, don't think about writing, wait... one minute now.
60 seconds.

The chattering and laughter, the infuriating noise of contentment and merrymaking ring out around her.

40 seconds.

Oh, but if she'd only thought to bring her notebook...

30 seconds....

Why is it always while one is watching time that it slows down?!

10...9...8...

Almost time... Her grip tightens on her bag and she rises from her seat.

2...1...

BRRIIIIINNNNNGGG

The moment the bell sounds, she is out of her seat in a flash, her mind already repeating the words over and over in her head. They HAVE to stick in her brain, they just have to!

Light glares at her from the seats on the bus as she throws herself down upon the one at the very back. Impatience strikes again, but this time not for nearly as long.

"Kyrie!" she cries as her friend approaches. "Can I borrow a piece of paper?" It's a struggle to get the words out. Inside, she's already writing, crossing out sentences and rephrasing them.

"Yeah, hold on, let me grab a page..."

No, not hold on, I need it NOW! She wants to scream. But she doesn't. Nothing that would delay the progress of the writing material. Her hands dig through her book bag for her own supplies.

When the gorgeous blank sheet reaches her hands, she immediately feels a sense of relief. She places it across her yearbook, using the middle school memento as a table of sorts.

"Thank you!" she mumbles, uncapping a pen and sticking headphones in her ears. She doesn't bother turning the iPod on- if people think she's listening to music, they're not going to speak to her, much less check to see if she really has music playing.

Finally.

'At last,' she writes. 'At last I am free.'

Thus begins a world of ink and wonder, of fury and confusion, a release of stress. It makes little sense at the moment, but maybe later she can twist and prod it into something recognizable. For now, it's her mind, splayed across a page like so many droplets of water from an overturned glass. For now, it's safety, her own unique land in a world filled with so much she doesn't want to be a part of.

For now, she writes.