Sir Romeo : Journal Entry #1

Fiction, Literature, Original Work, Short Stories

Sir Romeo

My name is Sir Romeo…well, I am no Sir, I do not want to lie. They no longer are according to the history book my class received last term. It congested 1800 through 2099 in a few segments based upon “major” events that shaped the present. Today, I wish I was an authentic Knight, although I have not chosen a last name. I hope to in case I die soon.

Alas, I am ten years old, an only child to a single mother with no rank or estate. What am I now? I assume an orphan. I am officially no longer in the fourth grade here in State 7. New United States was quite lonely for my mother and me, though I am going to miss school very much. I do love words, history and science class. Also, I have been preparing for the Technical Academy since I received my early acceptance. I should have visited the river more opposed to studying. Anyhow, all is gone now. The raid actually happened at school, the reason why we moved here. I was the center of an unnecessary debacle when it happened.

Two days ago at dismissal, an acquaintance asked me to shut him in a locker to give someone a comical fright. I refused. I expected something would go wrong and wanted to be spared of any possible blame. He insisted. To stop his whining, I participated in his scheme. His trick regrettably did not go as planned. When his victim turned the dial of their lock, it crammed. We tried to release him but the door would not dislodge. He was indeed a big boy. He panicked and blubbered for help, which amused me. The bus I take home – or, used to take – is always punctual, so I left when another classmate searched for a teacher.

I forgot about the event until I walked into class yesterday. I became quite suspicious when no one would look me in the eye, responses kept short, altogether dependent on the teacher. Mrs. Rosa and I already had a tumultuous relationship. She was a beautiful woman but misused her authority over young students. She wanted the class to sit in the meeting area in a circle. Apparently, my good friend had a horrifying tale to share of his sudden entrapment inside a locker, abandoned by an anonymous person who shut him in. The whole account was based on the truth. The teacher wanted him to tell the story to every class in school and warn students of such dangers. She also wanted the second party of the fiasco to reveal themselves and face the consequences.

I immediately spoke up and refused any sort of restraint for my “contribution”. I told the truth yet she wanted to know if I had any “punishment suggestions”, ignoring my account of what really happened. Her tone and demeaning assumption of collaboration in my own demise, let alone accept a false accusation against my reputation, infuriated me. I kept calm.

Since he was going to spread propaganda, I might as well do the same. I can tell the entire student body not to ignore their better judgment in circumstances where the foolish conclusion is quite evident. She did not appreciate my idea and considered it disrespectful and sarcastic to the class. It is tragic standing alone for one’s convictions, especially when witnesses of the matter stare against you. She wanted me to think of an appropriate punishment and accept I did something wrong.

The rage boiling over in my blood was difficult to control. All I wanted to do was mummify her like the Egyptians did to the deceased and keep her in a locker. I gladly claim responsibility for her agonizing death. I was in a daze imagining her melodic screams and the stench of her rotting corpse warding off my enemies. Yet, there she was sat before me, unharmed, expecting an answer.

So I smiled sweetly, enough so my dimples were presented, and told her “I did nothing wrong and I will not be punished”. She bounced up from her seat and walked towards me. She wanted to hit me for this moment and every showdown before. I have seen that face many times at home. Instead, she lectured on about misbehaved children. They end up failing in life, exactly what she expects for me. I disagreed. I still feel the power of courage when I told everyone “I believe great leaders stand up for their morals, actions and conclusions, which undoubtedly appears to be rebellion in the eyes of their opponents. She did not like that. She wanted to hit me. I wanted her to. I should not have provoked her but I did confess in anger I would lock him in again just to prove my point! She wanted me to imagine myself in his position and I replied “If it was me screaming in a locker I stepped in on my own, the embarrassment would have been well earned. Happily, I know better”.

She firmly grabbed my arm, jerked me out of the circle and pulled me towards the exit. Looking now, I have a dark bruise with nail marks. I whimpered in pain and pushed her away with my entire body, causing her to slam against the whiteboard. She came at me, hand ready to deliver a swift slap. I stepped forward and prepared my cheek for it, standing proud, fists clenched.

However, her attempt was ruined by a sudden shock wave that crashed through the windows, spreading everyone and furniture across the floor. Cries from my classmates competed with the drilling frequency in my head. I used a toppled desk to help me stand. I landed on my hip really hard. It is still burning and may even be fractured. Outside, gunshots blared amongst the sounds of explosions. Mrs. Rosa was helping surviving students off the floor and towards the exit. Our eyes met and she seized me once again and pulled me towards her supply closet, threw me in and locked the door. I was about to stand but stayed down when I heard loud screams and begging, followed by rapid rounds of ammunition. A few broke through the closet door.

The shooter laughed, a man, and quickly reloaded. I crawled to the door to peek through a hole and saw him walking towards the closet. I quickly hid in the corner next to the hinges and stooped down. The doorknob buckled. I was sure that would not stop him from coming in and another startling bullet blew the knob off. I closed my eyes and covered my mouth with both hands. The door swung open and hit me in the face and I had to catch myself from falling back. If I moved an inch, I would have hit the door forward.

I could see the man scour the room through the gun holes. He rummaged through shelves, knocked most things out of his way and eventually turned and stared at the door. He grabbed the edge. I looked up and saw his fingers gripping the wood. There was nothing to keep me covered. I was already vulnerable testing my balance between the door and a net bag full of balls hanging on the wall behind me. The door budged forward and I lost my breath.

Three words kept the man from finding me. “Oy! Come on!”

The door stopped and I regained my breath instantly when he walked out of the classroom. I stayed frozen as if I was a statue and waited. The sounds of screaming, gunfire and the wretched ringing frequency slowly returned and replaced the rhythm of my rapidly beating heart.

A few hours have passed and the invasion continues. The building rumbled four times. I’m afraid the entire structure will collapse if those men don’t find me first. Writing all this in this notebook has helped me calm down and process the day.

What a day. It is only the beginning.

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