From the first time I asked you looked at me with a face of barbed cynicism and chain link criticism, a harsh hostile environment built by someone so young.
Your eyes seemed to be striving for some other place to be and continued to be disappointed when they yet again returned from their reconnaissance to find me still there.
Your fingers played anxiously with the strap of your satchel as if concealed within the fabric was a secret button that could transport you across the playground or to another break period.
Chewing ever harder on your bubblegum, seemingly praying that it would become able to lose one's voice in the flavourless lump losing it's flavour in your mouth.
I push for an answer, like my impatience is a bonus trait you get for free in this feeble five foot package wrapped in navy wool and grey cotton.
Like security guards trained in crowd control your classroom mafia guide you away spraying giggles of pity like a can of mace.
I was only thirteen when I died.
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