Existence 01 - Existence

defeat before turning around and facing my round English Literature teacher.
    “Yes, sir, I was, um, just going to get a late pass.” He smiled and shook his head, “No need, but do hurry up please we’re just getting started on the beauty that is fiction. Come along now.” He stepped back, waiting for me to enter first. I walked back toward the class, wanting to turn and take off running in the other direction. I knew if Mom got a call that I’d jumped ship she would be furious and my chances of finding Dank were slim to none once I was locked in my room for the rest of the year.
    I stepped into the classroom and walked over to my empty seat by the window. The chair behind me sat empty. I glanced back at Kendra and the chair behind her was full of Justin. He’d just stepped in and taken Dank’s place. Disgusted, I turned back around. How could she have been touched by Dank and kissed by him and so easily forgotten he existed? I hadn’t forgotten. How had she? How could she not feel the pain of his absence? He was too good for her. Why had he wasted so much time with her? I sank down into my chair and swallowed the lump of emotion welling up inside me. I couldn’t sit through this class without him here.
    “The reading assignment today is to be done quietly at our desks. Do not talk to your neighbors. I want complete silence as you inhale the beauty of the written word. Take it in. Let it soak into your veins and fill you with such glorious wonder that you are positively glowing.” Moans erupted over the room. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Let us be excited about the word. Excited about its beauty.” Grumbling continued as the sounds of shuffling pages filled the room. This would be a time for most of the students to take a nap behind their textbooks. I opened mine, wanting to find something to get my thoughts off of Dank. When the day was over I would go to the hospital and I would begin asking questions. Some soul somewhere had answers.
    “Ugh, this is poet stuff,” a grumbling voice came from the back of the room.
    Mr. Brown looked up from the book in his hands. “Ah, yes it is Mr. Kimbler, so nice of you to notice.” More groans erupted and I found the page directed on the board. It was William Wordsworth’s work. I felt the urge to moan in despair myself. Studying the beginning of the Romantic Age was not something I needed right now. Where were the tragic playwrights when you needed them?
    “How does this mess help us in the real world?” Justin said in a cocky voice. Sniggers erupted across the classroom.
    “Hear, hear,” someone called with a tap on their desk.
    Mr. Brown glanced up once more with a slightly annoyed expression on his face, “Gentlemen, if one does not study the words of famous romantic poets how will one ever learn to woo the woman they will one day love? I can assure you that P Diddy has no words of instruction in his lyrical creations.” His words caused a few chuckles. I would have found this all very amusing if the concept of reading P Diddy lyrics didn’t seem so appealing at the moment. I glanced down at the poem we were to read and write a two-page paper on. To a Young Lady by William Wordsworth. I could only hope it wasn’t a poem of enduring love.
    “Dear Child of Nature, let them rail!
    --There is a nest in a green dale,
    A harbour and a hold,
    Where thou a Wife and Friend, shalt see
    Thy own delightful days, and be
    A light to young and old.
    There, healthy as a Shepherd-boy,
    As if thy heritage were joy,
    And pleasure were thy trade,
    Thou, while thy Babes around thee cling,
    Shalt shew us how divine a thing
    A Woman may be made.
    Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
    Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh,
    A melancholy slave
    But an old age, alive and bright,
    And lovely as a Lapland night,
    Shall lead thee to thy grave.
    "--_Pleasure is spread through the earth
    In stray gifts to be claim'd by whoever shall find_."
    My shattered heart throbbed. I began to write. The pain inside me poured out onto the paper. It felt almost as if I were bleeding with each word I scrawled. Lost in my need to express to someone the pain inside, it startled me when my paper was taken from under my hand. My head snapped up. Mr. Brown gave me a small nod and cleared his throat.
    “Ah, it appears that Miss. Moore knows William Wordsworth or has already read her homework.” He peered over his half-moon spectacles at the class. “Which is much more than I can say about the lot of