The mark sheet.

In response to daily prompt: shadow

Shadows, ink in your eyes.
The shadow lurking behind you as you stay up night after night, warring with sleep. The LED staring at you, a mad lonely eye, and lines of print on tomes as thick as the indifference piled on the world. You rub sleep out of your eyes, your limbs ache but one look at the glowing dial and your wavering resolves into hardened stone. Its so lonely, here with these figures and the incessant silence of a world asleep.
Noone is here now, the cameras with their lack of better stories, the teachers with their fake smiles of pride. Now, noone is there. It’s just you, and your lonely climb up Cavalry.

Splattered on your skull, years and years of training, of being ground into dust, of being smashed and scratched- the world is a giant, unrelenting whetting stone.
Remember the darker days of the French Revolution? When the people rose in revolt and killed both the innocent and the guilty, and came at the end of the day to sharpen their swords at a giant stone? Remember how the courtyard, the old church of Paris all lay in mute despair as the masses splattered blood and ground their machetes against the stone?
That’s us right there.
No, not the ones wielding the sword, we are the swords itself. Or maybe not a sword, maybe a pickaxe, a kitchen knife- all fit to do something better, more fitting, yet all we do is hack, hack at each other till there is nothing but blood in the hands of those who turned us into weapons.

Are you satisfied? With this years toppers? All those of you celebrating, clamouring for their attention,looking for far stretched relations to the chosen ones, taking part in their glory- is that fleeting moment of flame really worth the childhood you stole from us? Do you sleep better, when your son bleeds on the paper, words that he had learnt to validate his existence?
Are you happy, now that your slaves have slaughtered others? Are you happy with this cockfight or do you want more?
You say you’re training us, for the world out there. At least the world out there doesnt steal our innocence.
You, you are the ones plastering titles, ‘problem child’ ‘adolescent’ ‘delinquent’ ‘star student’
The world outside doesn’t care for our souls. You, you sell our souls, 45 marks each.

What do you judge us by? Merit? How long we spent learning endless pages of notes? How many extra classes we slogged to with half numb shoulders?

You say it’s worth it, when the marksheet is splattered on your face. But that’s just 1℅ of the children. The poor dead souls.
What about the rest of us? What about the ones whose souls are unhinged, hungry, cowering in a dark hole?
What are you teaching us? That we don’t matter? That we should have learnt to kill better? Does this make you happy, when you’re old, dying and you realise not one moment of your life was worth the applause you wasted your time chasing?
Why do you throw your child down the same hole, knowing in your heart, that he might be a one percent success rate,
Or, like the rest of us, collateral damage?

Like death said, humans haunt me.


2 thoughts on “The mark sheet.

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