Unexpected Hysteria

Now, being a sophomore isn't as fun as it looks, UNLESS you take some fun classes. Well, being any year in high school isn't as fun unless you take a few easy classes in with your honors. That's what it's all about right? The creative, fun, homework-less classes! Ones where when you finish all your work, you can sit back relax, or maybe do your homework. 1

As I looked around the creative writing room, I knew pretty much that was the reason for the amount of 'stoners' - so to speak, in the class. These stoners were the ones, that slept during class because no one had taken the dubie away when the time had come for school to start. The stoners were the ones that were on their fourth beer at the raging party last night. Or perhaps, I reconsidered, no. The beer was always free to those who wanted it, but it seemed those who wanted it were more in the in crowd. But, the weird thing was – those people who slept through class and those who never combed their hair were in. 2

As I studied the classroom a bit more, the volume level increased. Almost every girl wearing a Holister shirt had joined another girl wearing the same assortment, and blabbered (with their mouths open quite wide, may I add) about nothing in particular. A few students, towards the back of the glaringly white classroom, had their heads cradled in their arms. It was interesting how they all seemed to have the same dirt brown hair, which flowed over their arms and ticked the creamy brown of the desk. As one of the sleeping children twitched, and shifted his position, I saw the shirt that he was wearing. It was a black Volcom shirt, the white diamond prominent on the black background. Just from a brief glimpse of his face, and the build of his body I could tell that it was a he. Although his hair was rather long for a guy, it was still, as they would say, in. 3

Letting my eyes drag past the rows of desks, the number of empty seats struck me as odd for a moment. The unmoved chairs lingered in my vision as I remembered that it was one day after the Superbowl. Of course all of the empty chairs belonged to children whom where home 'sick', but their sickness was no common cold, more of the symptoms of a hangover or perhaps they just had stayed up too late. Yeah. Right. 4

The volume in the classroom became louder, as ten minutes went by with no teacher. One girl, a gingerly red head, called out, “Where do you think Mr. Kemper is?” her lips at an angle on her face, and the amount of lipgloss on these cherry red suckers, was repulsive. 5

“I bet you he's smoking it up in the bathroom,” joked a boy whose head was not upon his desk, like the rest. He got a few laughs, but not as many as he would have liked. He half-rolled his eyes and went back to his initial conversation, as if it was the only thing that he cared about in the first place. 6

There was one minute to fifteen after, when the whole room became silent. There was not a word out of any one mouth, and not a rustle of a backpack. Complete silence engulfed the room. The lights, through this silence, seemed to get ten times brighter. This overbearing light seemed to reflect off the tiles. Though, through all of this light, the air was still stifling cold – as it usually was in this school. They only heat the classrooms to an extent to were the temperature is just bearable, and one doesn't have to wear a coat if one wants to. 7

My head twitched around in premonition, as a rather large burly fellow appeared in the doorway. My subconscious mind identified this man as Mr. Kemper, but my eyes did not believe what my mind was screaming. His blue button up shirt was pulled over his rather large stomach, and his tie was slung over his neck behind him, as if he had been running. Black pants adorn his long legs, were held up by a rather small belt at what you could call his waist. His hands were thrown in the air, and his face was red from what all I could guess to be – he had been running. His hair was askew on his head, and his eyes were wild behind his glasses. 8

As he burst through the doorway, many pairs of eyes joined mine on his form. Now, there was a table at the front of the classroom, as there usually was in every classroom in the school. But, the table in the front of this classroom was one of those small rather transportable tables, and it had papers littered all over it. Ones that he usually handed out during class time. The different colors of the papers, which ranged from pink to green, were white washed from the glaring lights. 9

Everything seemed to go in slow motion, as his form scaled the front of the classroom. What usually would take two seconds to cross was taking more like a twenty second span in my mind. I could see every detail of his body, each wrinkle that creased across his chest. Every line of aging that he had put into his forehead, and the perfect shade of pink upon his cheeks. Halfway to the table, which I had a fear of he was aiming himself at – his lips began to move. And this was when, I knew that there was something wrong with me. 10

When his lips began to move, no. May I say, even before his lips began to move there was an inkling of something. A bash of drum was first. Rage beat into a belly of a drum echoed in the background of what I was seeing. A piano shifted notes, mingling heatedly with the drums. But, only seconds after that, Mr. Kempers lips – began to move. 11

As his lips did move, words came out of it. Words of a coarse singers voice. ~I do not want this....~ Were the words that escaped his mouth. I paused for a moment and thought. That's weird. The chorus doesn't start for another forty-six seconds or so. The voice, that escaped Mr. Kemper's lips, was one of an industrial singer, Trent Reznor. But, I definitely knew that is how the song did NOT start out. As he begain the second line, ~I do not want this....~ The drums heaved again, an a little noise from a synthesizer squealed in the background. That was weird.. It just skipped to the chorus... But, as I watched, my head not moving, not even to follow his movements, Mr. Kemper took the table in both of his hands. 12

His rather large hands wrapped around the end of the table, I could just about guess what was going to happen next. Pushing upwards, the table was forced into the air – and slowly over. But, all of this action to me took just a bit over two minutes. Papers caught the air and danced twirlingly to the floor. The hundreds of papers scattered about and mingling with each other, as the glided to safety – well most of them anyways. Some of the unfortunate ones got caught underneath the massive table top. 13

Mr. Kemper, still red in the face, turned and faced the class and from his mighty lungs screamed another, ~I do not want this....~ But, that is when I noticed something peculiar, and knew instantly that I was hallucinating.14

My eyes still focused on the doorway, my head unmoved – but yet somehow, my eyes were focused on his lips. His lips did not say the words that I was hearing, yet even less, his lips did not put force in which the voice I heard did. The drumming was another factor though, and it echoed through my head in a manic way, the synthesizer just as well. 15

And then altogether his lips were moving again – and he was looking straight at me. But, I did not hear Mr. Kemper's voice I heard the voice, of Trent Reznor. ~Don't you tell me how I feel...~ His voice shocking my mind, and the drums tearing apart my senses. 16

The last footfall I saw before flecks of gray grew in my vision, was his third – his eyes still trained on me, and his lips still moving in... ~Don't you tell me how I feel.~ But, I know his lips really weren't moving in that fashion. He was saying something else. Something that he wanted me to understand. 17

~You Don't know just how I feel.~18

What an interesting feeling it is to wake up with your eyes open. It worries you at first, but then knowing that you did not have your eyes closed, and you weren't sleep at all is more disturbing. My head was upright, and I was still staring at the door frame. The insane drumming and synth was gone, and when all the grayness drained out of my vision – my hearing swarmed. It was all overwhelming at first. 19

Mr. Kempers loud voice commanding something. Commanding something. Or was that just how his voice always sounded. Or was that voice his at all? It was so hard to make the connection. The thoughts just wouldn't come to me fast enough. It was like pulling a live fish out of a barrel, blindfolded. 20

And then everything rushed back to me at once. 21

Mr. Kemper had his hand on my desk, quite commandingly (how had he gotten there so fast?). His loud voice rang through the empty classroom. The kids in the classroom around me were completely silent. What a change in mood. “Sierra!” He said commandingly, but with a slight urgency to his voice. “Are you ok?” He said, as he saw me blinking back into reality.22

The realization of what just happened hit me in the forehead like me walking into a brick wall. Ouch, I made mental note. “I'm.... Ok.” I said, shaking my head, and I looked around. Just about every pair of eyes in the classroom (even those of the stoners, who earlier had been sleeping).23

“It was just a skit...” Said Mr. Kemper, quite confused in himself. Probably thinking that his little rage had set my seizure off. “I didn't mean....”24

“Don't worry about it.” I said, now smiling up to him. “I just had an Absence Seizure.”