The Neon Pink Welcome Sign

I tried to be positive, walking up those stone steps, the impending torture growing closer with each step that I took. The double doors faced me like the opposing side of a battle field, their commonplace-blue paint chipped and scuffed. I pull on the handle, pausing to frown at a neon pink welcome sign taped above it. Shaking my head in repulsion, I walked across the threshold, remembering dully in my mind the things I was leaving behind. 152, 153,154…room numbers flashed by my eyes. I stopped. Great. Here I was. Room one hundred and sixty-fricken-two. Less than a second after I walked in, I was accosted by a middle-aged woman with withered brunette hair and caked make up. “I’m Mrs…” I’m sorry, Mrs. who? I forgot your name already. I picked a random desk and sat down in the hard, splintered chair. Tapping my fingernails impatiently, I look down and see the word “asshole” engraved in the fake wood print. Nice greeting. A sharp buzzing disturbs my thoughts. The bell. Sigh…summer school.

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