[ WP ] The prisoner .

She sits at her desk, waiting to be dismissed. She fiddles with her shirt, a soft, grey thing, stares at her blue binder, packed with random papers. She fiddles with her jacket, the one that her mom had gone *fucking pyscho* over, as she put it to her friends, voice laced with a sad anger. It's a blue, denim thing. Masculine. Much of her style is masculine. 
 
 Finally called on, she says goodbye to her teacher, the kind, tall man, and makes her way down the hall. It stirs with life, people making plans to meet, to go out for lunch the next day, shoving books into bags and lockers. An air of excitement, everyone wanting to go home. Hurrying, shoving on rain coats, grabbing umbrellas, running down the hall. 
 
 She walks slowly. Head down. Watching her feet. Bidding goodbye to her friends. A girl, her friend-but-not, thanks her for convincing her to talk to a teacher about the rude remarks others were making. She nods, smiles. 
 
 She walks down the stairs, holding on to the railing, her stomach twisting in knots, as if she were about to present something to the entire school. *Fuck, * going through her head. Rage, depression, *fear* swirling in her head. 
 
 She walks through the school grounds, to the road, the car with her mom inside. She breathes in, making her way down the sidewalk, and holds her breath. Eyes feeling full of tears, yet none fall. 
 
 A prisoner of her own home. 
 
 Her own mind. 
 
 Her parents. 
 

