All my life, I've been haunted by a single question: What am I supposed to do with my future? People think they know me. They try to define me, shove labels on me like I'm a box they need to check off. And honestly? I hate it. That word might be harsh, but nothing else captures how I feel. If I had a clear purpose, something worth chasing, I wouldn't procrastinate so much. It's not that I'm lazy or unmotivated—it's that I haven't found anything worth fighting for yet.
And the worst part? I can't even think in peace.
"Julius, which amendment gave African Americans the right to vote?" Ms. Moore asks.
"The fifteenth," I reply, glancing up.
"Correct, Julius!" she says with that soft, sweet smile of hers.
Ms. Moore actually cares. I had her last year as a sophomore as well. She grades our work on time and dresses like she means business—unlike my language arts teacher, who looks like he just woke up in a cave somewhere. If he didn't pull up in a Lamborghini every morning, I'd swear he was homeless.
The clock ticks to 11:30. Lunch is near.
High school feels like a prison sometimes, especially when today's the first day of school. Endless homework, indifferent teachers. Honestly, I think some of them procrastinate more than I do.
"Today, you'll be working in pairs for a presentation on African tribes," Ms. Moore announces.
"I'll be assigning the groups, and you'll collaborate on your slides."
Great.
"Assigning" groups always means one thing: I'm stuck with someone I'd never wanna be with. Half this class spends more time messing around than actually learning.
I glare at the projector, anxiety bubbling in my gut as names are called. My friends get paired off one by one. I'm left wondering who I'll be stuck with.
"Julius, you'll be working with me," a kid with blond hair says, flashing a grin.
Oh, shoot.
Will of all people. He's one of those spoiled types who thinks ketchup fights are peak comedy.
Brrring.
The bell saves me, it's lunchtime.
The cafeteria smells like regret. Junk food lines every tray. Today's special is popcorn shrimp and fries; I grab a chocolate milk as well since there aren't any better options. It's a miracle this school doesn't have a higher obesity rate. As for me, puberty seems to be on my side, for now. I'm six feet tall, 170 pounds, and somehow still lean despite the garbage I eat. Probably the one advantage I've got.
I pull out my sketchbook between bites. It's become a habit—comforting, automatic. My pencil moves almost on its own, lines spilling across the page before I can think. Lately, when I draw, there's this... tingling in my fingers. Like static, or the slow charge before a lightning strike. Familiar. I tighten my grip on the pencil, steadying the movement in my fingers before it stirs too much. Gotta stay in control. Not here. Not now. I lean back, forcing myself to focus on the paper, not the sensation humming beneath my skin.
"Hey, are you okay?" Zach asks, smiling.
"I don't know, I guess I'm just a little tired," I say, facing him.
Zach—he's the one person I trust fully. Loyalty like his is rare. When it comes to friends, I go for quality over quantity. As to most people? They say one thing and think another. But not Zach. He listens. That's what makes him real.
Suddenly, a hand snatches the cap off my water bottle.
"Yo, lemme borrow this for a sec," a kid says casually, not even looking at me.
Chris. Of course.
I've seen Chris pull the same stunts on other students plenty of times, like a dumbass. Every day, he swipes someone's ketchup packet, bottle cap, or whatever random object he can get his hands on—always tossing it around like it's some kind of joke, never asking for permission. But this time, it's different. This time, I'm the one he is messing with.
"I'll handle it," Zach says, ready to stand.
"No, let me," I tell him, holding him back.
I grab my open bottle of water and walk up to Chris.
"Hey, Chris. Ever heard of manners?" I ask, and pour the water over his head.
"You don't just take stuff without asking. I know you're used to getting whatever you want, but that doesn't fly with me," I say calmly.
"What the hell?" Chris reacts in shock and confusion.
What just happened was the last thing he expected.
He's probably never been called out like that before. Kids like him are greenhouse flowers—never faced a real storm. I walk away. It's only a matter of time before the teachers ask what happened. Playing the victim here is the most ideal as Chris started the commotion.
"Julius, are you alright?" My vice principal asks.
"Yes, sir. Sorry for causing trouble," I say with a genuine tone, with a smile.
"No worries, I am sure that you are not the one causing the issue." My vice principal says.
For me, dealing with people, especially teachers, has always come naturally. I've never been one for violence. If something can be solved peacefully, I'll take that route every time. But I also believe in consequences. Eye for an eye. People stop messing with you once they realize you're not just going to take it.
"Julius, don't you think that was a bit much?" One of the girls from Chris's little crew asks, her voice shaky, her face tense.
"If it happens again, it won't end this easily," I say to her.
She then left without saying a word.
Chris isn't the first to try me, and I doubt he'll be the last. But I'd like him to be. I'm not violent by nature, but I won't fear anything either. There's a line, and once it's crossed, all bets are off.
The rest of the day blurs before I even notice, school's over. Freedom High—hailed as one of the top schools in the country, the best in the state—feels like a fraud. Drugs in the halls. Racism in whispers and glances. Bullies who think they run the place. I don't know what standards they're using to call this place "elite," but from where I'm standing, it's just another broken system in a shiny wrapper.
Home's only five minutes away—a plain townhouse, nothing fancy. Not big, not small. Just enough. If I've got a bed, food, and water, I'm good. People waste their lives chasing things that are more than enough, only to die and leave it all behind. What's the point?
I hop on my laptop and scroll through the news. Same chaos as always—hate crimes, riots, murders. Business as usual. It's 2025. Everyone's lost their damn minds.
Disturbed by the headlines flashing across my screen, I shut my laptop, reach for my brushes, and let the silence of the canvas absorb my thoughts as I begin to paint.