The screaming of children. The running steps. At 6 am.

The audacity of these kids to wake up so early and then wake me up. 

“Shut the fuck up before I deck you lot!” I shout at them, causing them to be ever so slightly quieter. They just shout back, “Sorry, Amaya!”

As much as I’d like to knock them unconscious, I resist the urge and fold up my duvet on my floor mattress.

I just woke up, and I already want to collapse.

Never-the-fucking-less, I force myself to clean up in the bathroom and get ready.

School uniforms are pretty alright, despite what everyone at school says.

The blazer is really nice, jet black with the emblem placed neatly on a breast pocket. And it has a LOT of pockets. All the pockets. As I smooth out my tie, the only good tie in the whole school at green, silver, and black, my skirt invades the corners of my eye. This shitty piece of fabric that I wear, making me easily identifiable from the crowd of the 70% of male students in the school. At least I get to wear slacks under it. 

At that point, just let me wear only slacks?

I take a look in the mirror and see the rustled mess I call my hair, the lightish brown falls to my shoulders (usually covering me in dandruff). Kinda boring, but school doesn’t let me do much with my hair anyways…

Hattersway High School, my school, is in shambles. It was supposed to be refurbished, but the school behind us took the privilege, leaving us with this ancient and barely functioning one. And obviously, as soon as we were given the privilege to be refurbished, they cancelled the program because of lack of funding.

I walk down the creaky wooden stairs to find one of the carers in the kitchen, toasting some bread for one of the youngers, who’s already sitting at the table. I’m gonna be honest, I know no one's name here, despite having been here for over a year. No need for me to know their names either, the seven other kids living here are all either in year seven, or in primary school. 

Being an outlier sucks ass.

The kettle still has hot water in it, so I prepare some black tea. Black tea is better, despite everyone else’s repulsion to it. I also have this nice pink mug, which is bigger than everyone else’s. Thankfully, the ensuing beating that the thief would receive has so far stopped everyone but the carers from using it. Not that I can blame them, drinking large quantities of caffeine at one time is a necessity for them. 

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I take a seat at the large wooden table, which I have no idea how they managed to fit in the kitchen, before the kid already sitting there decides to talk to me.

“Hi Aya!” he says, already hyper despite the sun barely having risen.

“Hi.” I say back.

“Why don’t you eat anything before going to school?”

“I’m not hungry in the mornings.” It’s always questions that could’ve been answered if they thought for around five seconds.

“Okay, then,” he says, idly playing with his hands. “Have you seen the news lately? There's alotta videos of the fighting going on over in Ukraine.”

How the fuck has he gotten access to combat footage? I’m never letting my children have unsupervised internet access, if I even have any.

“Sad, isn’t it?” I reply. My tea is getting cold.

“Yeah, it is. I think around 17 million people were displaced.” He stares off into the ceiling. “It’s endlessly saddening how little the human race would sacrifice the livelihoods of millions for.”

I don't remember thinking about this stuff back in year six.

“He has no idea what he’s talking about,” says the carer, placing the plate of toast down in front of him. “You sure you don’t want any?”

“Nah,” I reply, though the smell of the toast does lure me in a bit. I force the rest of the tea down my throat, and run back upstairs into my room.

The one perk about waking up so early is that I get to practise guitar before school. Music is one of the few great things in life, and I have dedicated hours, and I mean hours to improving my skill in this region. I take my guitar from its stand, and run my hands across its body. Glossy black, gold humbuckers and tuners and silver frets. A damn beauty. Looks better than me, which is slightly sad now that I think about it. 

That metallic smell that arises from sliding around on the strings too much is relentless. That metallic smell. It’s familiar.

That sickening smell of iron.

I should stop playing. My hands are getting too sweaty. Why do I feel tears?

Why…

“Aya, you gotta leave now,” shouts the carer from downstairs. That felt like seconds. How long even went by? I wipe my eyes and run downstairs. Already time to go to school.

It's not particularly nice going there, the lessons are long, and the facilities shit. Our school is losing even more funding just because we get the highest results in our area. Bit of backwards logic from the government, but they can suck it.

The teachers breathing down my neck about wearing patrol boots can suck it too. No, it doesn't make me look intimidating, Mr Ali, or make me look unladylike (whatever that means), Mrs Lewis. I could not give a shit if you give me an hour detention just for wearing some different shoes. I tie up my boots, shout goodbye to the carer, and open the door.

The cold breeze envelopes me as soon as I do.

Damn British weather. 

Stepping outside, the roads and buildings seem to be greyer than usual, yet the sky is more vibrant than I’ve ever seen before. How does such a contrast exist?

Not for me to question, my life currently consists of walking to and from school, which is what I should probably start doing now.