It was an unruly classroom full of high school kids. I was one of them. Sitting in front of me on the floor was Marina a close friend (in real life her name is Marini, well I guess I can be forgetful in my dreams too). It was supposed to be a briefing of some sort. The first day of the 11th grade merging with a foreign country’s 11th grade. We were forming groups, getting acquainted with one another. Checking out prospects as most puberty-ridden adolescents do.
The wall was chocolate milk brown. I could see (and hear) amidst the noise, a gang of rowdy boys occupying a desk and some seats gathered around it. One of them, the loudest one, kept stealing glances at my friend. I caught his gaze and he was saved by one of his friends nudging him back into their conversation.
I felt I was subconciously filtering the noise. The thing Marina just told me, split my sense of being. One part was being in the excitement of meeting foreign people, making new friends, and being a part of the international society. One part was devastated. How could she be giggling and laughing right after telling me such a thing?
Just before the teacher quieted down the class, Marina disappeared. She went to fix the top button of her shirt that she just realized was missing. No wonder the boys were staring.
The teacher was talking about something but I was busy fogging the window with my breath and writing something on it 4 letters. Just when I finished writing, the rowdy boy I caught looking at my friend cracked a joke. Everybody laughed, except for me, sitting quietly behind my filter. The word I wrote was: CYST.
With the teacher gone, came back the noise. I was still safe in my own quiet world. Until someone tapped my shoulder. I turned around and a foreign boy. Unlike the others, I couldn’t pinpoint his race. His skin was a lighter tone compared to the chocolate milk walls. He had slanted eyes, his hair was cut so short it was barely there; or was it just beginning to grow after being shaved all off. I guessed he was Afro-Caucasian with a hint of Asian. His features were somewhat ‘elf’ ishly soft and beautiful, but his square jaw saved him his masculinity. My jaw on the other hand, must have dropped.
I automatically scanned his background in my head. An ability the human beings in my dream were already capable of. He was one of the youngest war journalist on the planet. His reports covered Afghanistan, China, Libya, etc. He was agile and nimble; able to take incredible shots without getting shot.
His mouth was wording things at me, but my filter kept blocking them. I was trying so hard to hear him but couldn’t.
And at that, I woke up.