• Laughter. Cruel laughter darkens my pride and bites my side. Big, hardy laughs. They look down upon me. My pride, my power, they quiver beneath. I shake, I bite my lips, I hold my tears in. Sweet tears. Bitter tears. Tears that sting and burn my eyes when standing next to freshly cut onions or when smoke blows in my face. There I sit. Crossing off the answers; each one leaves a dent in my pride. Bearing the laughter I sit and wait for class to be over. Bearing the silent, bitter laughter. Desperately seeking solace I constantly look at the clock. Five minutes has passed. Solace. A sweet word. A sweet nothing that beckons me in darkness. Calls to me when I’m deaf. Tugging my arm when my feet are numb. I can’t go no matter how much the tears threaten the dwindling thread of pride left in my heart. Emulation, oh a strong word it is. A word that represents life and death. A word that dwells in my mind and infects it with a pandemic of depression. I know I can’t go and can’t hide. So I wait. I wait through every agonizing second that feels like a millennium until class is over.