My friends encircle me, laughing at funny jokes and reminiscing about good times, tasting the bittersweet memory of last Friday’s iconic — yet humiliating moment — that we shared together, but still grinning sheepishly about it.
The constant sound of voices bounced from wall to wall, tree to tree, thickly filling the atmosphere. Birds chirped, bees buzzed and there was no room for silence.
The silence was screaming now. Very few sounds were made, other than the delicate flip of a page, the swirl of a pen against paper, my teacher’s busy fingers continuously tapping against the keyboard of her laptop, and quiet, subtle breaths.
I gazed longingly into the corridor from my lonely classroom and saw the remnants of a deserted, hollow hallway that was crowded less than an hour earlier.
Stale crumbs bordered the perimeter of the rubbish bins and crumpled papers littered doorway entrances. What was once alive with the hurried feet of students and the firm footsteps of teachers, was now absolutely deserted.
Chairs warmed by students earlier on in the day now sat cold and vacant. Lights in the ceiling hauntingly flickered on and off every few minutes.
The bitter taste of isolation and abandonment started to sink in. Wind pressed against the panes of the shuddering windows and the white board at the front of the room was naked, no longer clothed with the tidy handwriting of the previous teacher.
There was still warm daylight outside.
The lights were on and the windows were open but a feeling of cold, hollow darkness seemed to settle over the school.
It was the same place with the same desks, same chairs, same gardens, same windows.
Except everything could not have felt more different.
