Strained Emotion - Entr'acte.

I stand behind my desk. My shirt is dirty, my head is hung and I stare at my soiled shoes with the irreverent concentration of a lumberjack. There is a woman in the classroom. The sari she has draped around her meaty shoulders threatens her integrity to fall to the floor in a heap of dishonour. I am being visually raped by the sightless eyes of my classmates. For them, it is a commonplace thing - the berating of a high-school student by the Prinicipal. My dignity is being questioned, and all I can do is chuckle. I am taken aback by my own glee. It's unnatural. My fingernails beat a slow, meditative tattoo on the desk. I look up to find the woman wagging a stubby finger at me. Flecks of spit crowd the corners of the teachers downturned lips. She tells me my behaviour is unacceptable. She says she doesn't care that I bring her school wreaths-of-glory or the ceaseless attention of international school journals. I shuffle my feet impatiently. The girl beside me, who I have been fucking for two weeks now, is giggling at my nonchalance. The giggle becomes a cackle and then, silence. The bell rings. The students block the doorway and amused classmates slap my back, and, in the distance, I can hear the tinny sound of the metal clasps of lunchboxes being unfastened. My unseeing eyes roam the length of the classroom, and then they focus on the sympathetic eyes of the girl I'm fucking. I feel no remorse, no guilt, no pain and I feel like Trent Reznor. She hugs me, and leads me outside. I follow effortlessly. We find our bags and sling them around our shoulders, while we head for the Main Gate. She goes on about how the Principal is a snout-faced douchebag and how she plans to spend the evening with her friends at Pop Tates'. We take a rickshaw to my house. My parents are not in sight. There is a note on the fridge. It says they will be back by ten. She wraps her arms around my neck. I don't respond. She starts kissing me. Blur.

I wake up in my room to find her asleep next to me. I raise myself on one elbow, prod her in the shoulder and tell her it's late. She dresses quickly, pecks me on my unshaven cheek and leaves. Something's changing. It's ubiquitous. And I can feel the emotion clogging up my arteries, travelling up to the hypocampus, choking my thalamus till I am out of breath. I do not know why I am doing this. I do not know why I am doing this. I put my face in my hands.