Chapter 1, Part 5 - The Night Before School Hell

In the end, nine o'clock in the evening arrived.
By now I don't even understand time anymore — days seem to pass at an absurd speed, and that really limits the possibility of actually living them. Okay, I spent Sunday doing nothing, but I still would have liked it to last longer.

As usual, around nine, my family and I start having dinner. I have to say I'm quite satisfied with the food: Mom cooked chicken breast with pan-fried potatoes seasoned with various spices. One of them was definitely rosemary; I have no idea what the others were.

Too bad that whenever there's something good, the universe always has to balance it out with something bad. At some point, while I was eating in complete peace, chaos spread through the room. Mom brought up a topic and started discussing it with Dad; at first it seemed manageable, but then it turned into something like a duel.

I would have liked to understand what they were talking about, but they mentioned a lot of things in very little time. They jumped from one topic to another and even used terms I'm not used to yet. I assume it had something to do with money and with Dad's job — they've argued about similar things before, so...

In any case, Dad never wins. Mom's intensity is outstanding: I'm sure she could win any debate, putting her opponent at a serious disadvantage.

Poor Dad — Mom kicked him out of the bedroom and forced him to sleep on the couch. That thing is incredibly uncomfortable to sleep on; his body must be twisting in pain, I can't imagine what kind of suffering his bones are going through.

When things like this happen, I have absolutely no power. I doubt my opinion would matter, and I don't know if I'd be able to stand between two fires. And there's something else that scares me, something that keeps me from stepping in: if I were to express an opinion in favor of one of them, someone might misunderstand. They might think I'm "on that person's side," that I'll always be there for them, and that I'm not grateful for everything the other has done for me.

When it comes to parents, you can't be asked to choose. I can't do it. I never could. If my parents ever decided to get divorced, my world would fall apart. Who would I be entrusted to? And what if they started telling me nonsense just to make me hate the other? I'm uncertain about everything — and sometimes I'm also unbelievably gullible.

The house would become even emptier. One of them would have to find another place to live — practically a horrible thing. It would mean spending more money, and that could be a real problem: money spent on something that could have been avoided. But if two people don't love each other anymore, I can't force them to stay together. If they want to leave, if they want to cut that bond, they should.

A child won't accept it — maybe they'll understand it — but their life would change drastically. Still, parents do it for themselves and also for the result of what they once were. Because a child who sees their parents clash with shouting and all that will never forget it, even if they want to, and that's why it's better to stop than to keep reviving old trauma.

As usual, I do nothing but embrace my negativity. If only I were more positive, things would be much better. This habit of imagining destructive possible futures makes no sense at all.

I'd better focus on preparing my backpack for tomorrow, or I'll end up getting completely sad.

I walk over to the calendar and circle the next day with a red marker: November 3rd. I wish this day would never come — actually, I wish school would never come back. My relationship with that so-called building of instruction isn't exactly great, both in general and in terms of grades: I'm really terrible at it.

I never manage to understand all the stuff they explain. If they start talking about something practical, my brain just stops working; but if they talk about something purely theoretical or narrative, I could do perfectly well. Too bad even then I'm limited by the fact that teachers always make you speak in front of the whole class — and that obviously ruins me.

Everything would be easier if teachers understood my problem. I know I'd just be a burden and cause trouble, but that way I could get better grades, and finally repay the endless trust my parents place in me.

Some of my teachers can tell just by looking at me whether I've understood the topic or not; it's like I'm an open book, so much so that it's impossible to hide any possible secret.

I don't think that's a good thing. I mean, everyone has something to hide, right? Something they've never dared to tell anyone and still keep deep inside their soul — something they don't say out of fear that others' opinions might change, or simply out of embarrassment.

I've felt that way far too many times. Really, many.

On my desk there's my trusty little backpack. Even though I thought I could keep using the one from middle school in high school, Mom decided to buy me a brand-new one anyway, probably because she wanted me to make a good impression.

Since I was too indecisive to choose, I let her decide freely. I ended up with an object made of purple-and-light-blue fabric, with three pockets: a large one at the top, a medium one right below it, and finally a small pouch where I can put snacks or things that aren't too big. I basically have a colossus in which I could fit a whole arsenal.

I wonder what it feels like to handle weapons... not that I want to know! Just thinking about fighting with those things scares me. No. Never ever.

Some people prefer to prepare their backpack the night before, while others take the risk of doing it in the morning. I used to belong to the second category and always ended up making Mom angry — and she wasn't even completely wrong: because of me, we lost those two or three minutes that could make the difference between arriving on time or late.

But now I've converted to the other side: I prepare it the day before, for the day after.

That's why I need to stop wasting time and roll up my sleeves for this simple mission. The sooner I finish, the sooner I can dive into my warm, soft bed. I love being cozy under the blankets — I think it's one of the best feelings in the world.

I take my school planner and read the first page.

The beginning of a system lies within it: the beginning of the path and of its temporal flow. Inside this object lives the school timetable.

From the very first days we already know what awaits us for dozens of weeks: a continuous loop that repeats again and again, until the unexpected calm of summer arrives.

So many different subjects, completely different from one another. The principles of grammar, mathematics, physics, chemistry, science — all things taught inside that building, even though there's a good chance we won't actually finish the planned syllabus.

Italian.
Italian.
Physical education.
Mathematics.
English.
English.

Six full hours of lessons, starting at 8 and ending at 2 p.m. A simple school schedule that I wish were shorter, but I think anyone my age feels the same.

There are people who see success in studying, their goal to reach a great career and build a decent future. I don't think I feel that — at least not for my own satisfaction. I don't know if I'll really get anything out of my school path.

I think about these things so much that I often get an awful headache. I don't think it's healthy to always stay inside your own head, reflecting and repeating things you've already thought before.

Anyway, I need to take my Italian books and notebooks, same for math and English. Under my desk there's a big space where I keep all my school stuff.

So... I have to admit it: it's a mess down there. Books and notebooks, sure, but also old purses, scattered pencils and pens, loose pages from my drawing pad — at least the compass is behaving nicely in its little corner.

I take what I need and put it into the backpack easily. I still remember when I never took anything out, just to make sure I wouldn't forget something. At some point my backpack turned into a boulder; everyone who knew about it warned me that carrying that thing could damage my back, and damage at a young age can become really bad over time.

As for physical education, I don't need to put anything in the backpack except my gym uniform. The normal school uniforms always have to be neat, so they can't be used for exercise — that's why we have a separate one.

There is actually a book, but we never use it and I don't think anyone in history has ever used it — except to get a grade they somehow never got during gym class. Impossible. P.E. teachers give grades randomly; I don't think there's any real evaluation, at least in my school.

Okay, done. Now I'd better double-check that I've put everything in — you never know, and I know myself too well.

Checking again...
Checking again...
Checking again...

Looks like everything's there. I hope so — I really don't want the teachers to give me a remark just because I forgot something.

Teachers can be really awful sometimes: even tiny mistakes can completely mess things up for you. I mean, I just forgot something — it's not like I vandalized the school! And besides, there are people who actually enjoy causing trouble inside the building.

On top of that, parents get notified if their kids receive this kind of warning, and not all of them are as understanding as mine. If I were to explain what happened, they'd just tell me to be more careful. And that would be it. End of story.

But I'm sure there are parents who take it much more seriously, even over small things like this — especially those who chase the idea of having a perfect child in every way, someone who has to be an example for everyone else.

The exact opposite of my current situation.

I've already put on my beautiful, super-warm pajamas. Now I just have to throw myself into blanket paradise. I slip into my bed, starting a series of involuntary little spasms the moment I touch the warmth of my sheets. Everyone does that, right?

Tomorrow is going to be a tough day, and I really need to rest well. If I fall asleep now, I'll get about eight hours of sleep — or a bit less, depending on how things go.

I'm one of those people who can fall asleep instantly: I have no trouble sleeping, and the comfort of my bed is more than enough for my body to understand that it's time to shut down.

Others are the complete opposite: no matter how hard they try, they just can't fall asleep. Too many thoughts block their sleep — for some people it's like that. And that's where certain tricks come in, created by who knows whom — like counting animals, and more specifically, sheep.

It might sound silly, but for some people it actually works. And there's a reason I said "for some," since I've read that according to certain studies it isn't really an effective technique... at least not if you have strong waves of intrusive thoughts.

Still, I want to try it anyway. Things are meant to be tried, right? I've got nothing to lose.

Okay, here we go.

1 sheep.
2 sheep.
3 sheep.
4 sheep.
5 sheep.
6 sheep.
7 sheep.
8 sheep...
9 shee—
10 sh...

zzz... zzz... zzz... zzz... zzz...