English Class and Cheetahs



Kenneth Buck-Williams Brooks.



People just call me Kenny—not like I’ve got better options. I’ll either become the local druggie, “Kenny, the stoner on the curb,” or some potbellied “Kenneth—the washed-up twice-divorced addict.” Doesn’t matter—they both suck.



I don’t really consider myself a teenager despite being 17—I’m not an adult but I’m not a kid either. I guess I’m just developmentally doomed—stunted, arrested, whatever word makes it sound less pathetic. Maybe it’s because of how I was raised, or maybe I’m just genetically wired to be a piece of shit. Either way, if I want to salvage the last rotting crumbs of my bent-over-and-fucked ego, I can always host another self-indulgent pity party about dear old Mom and Dad.



Blood drips slow and steady from my left nostril with a quiet burn, tracing a path down to the dry crack in my lips. My tongue moved before I could think, chasing the iron—slipping into the pool like a kid testing bathwater. I say let it drown.



The first taste spread through me like a secret I already knew. Warmth blooms in my chest and dulls the edges of my thoughts. The metallic tang clings to my tongue—soft as velvet, thick as a memory.



It was like I was being swaddled in a wool blanket, something warm and breathable and something safe—but that was just the weed talking. Weed or marijuana? Kush or pot? I don’t know—whatever sounds less pathetic and more heroic. Would Batman smoke weed? I’m getting off topic.



The teacher’s been pacing like a cheetah stuck in a cage way too small for someone so big. At this point, someone should just shoot this bitch and put us all out of our misery. Her mouth moves like it’s trying to sell me death by boredom with words slathered in sticky, rancid syrup that I can’t choke down. The clock’s ticking in the corner like the grim reaper’s watch, counting down my slow roast in hell. Twenty minutes down, thirty-three to go, which feels like a death sentence with hall passes.



My brain’s wrapped in a cotton ball soaked in stale smoke and bad decisions which is apparently thick and fuzzy enough to make the walls drip like melted crayons left out in the sun too long. The fluorescent lights buzz like a pissed-off hornet nest, turning everything a sickly shade of “why even bother.” Sounds slosh around like I’m underwater, muffled except for that damn clock beating like a jackhammer inside my skull.



Was it the weed that was making me zone out or the class just that gay? Harvard, call me in for Nobel Prize in obvious shit. I’ll defend my argument like a judge backing the middle-aged baby daddy of a minor student.



This place is a rotting heap of shit. A locker-room-smelling heap of shit riddled with females dressed like sorority sluts… I wonder if I’d make a good frat boy.



Blood is still leaking from my nose, slow but insistent, almost like a crimson snake slithering down my face. It pools at my chin in a perfect, glowing bead—too light to fall yet burning with a molten heat only I can feel. Then it drips; a single drop falling in slow motion; a pulse of red thunder smashing onto my paper.



The splash blooms like a scarlet flower or some fiery blossom spreading ripples that glow and shimmer, rendering alive under the pulsing classroom light.



Sniffling is raw and ragged and it feels like a cheese grater in my nostril—and my eyes lock on that bleeding thread weaving through the white. It’s a living line drawn just for me. It’s my own personal signal in this silent haze. My cheek melts into the rough fabric of my sleeve.



Mrs. Blubberknob’s gaze flickers my way, but I don’t care. I’m wrapped up in the bleeding light show—the way the blood glows fierce and bright as a bloody beacon slicing through the dull grey fog of everything else.



“Kenny”—that’s me!



“Would you like to go to the nurse?” she asks, voice all melted marshmallow and salt.



I hate teachers like that. The fake smiles, the syrupy honey tone, it’s worse than the ones who just humiliate you for not having a #2 pencil. Pick a struggle, whore.



No, fuck that. I’m not wasting time on some burnt-out nurse who smells like stale cigarettes and divorce.



But I leave. Mrs. Blubberknob knows it too. Neither of us is fooled. I’m not heading anywhere but out for a smoke.