Aurora 2024

Aliyah Orten

tree outside my front door. After ten to fifteen minutes, she tells me I feel better and sends me back to class.

Back at my desk, I still feel uneasy. My mind wanders through obscene corners where I can’t stop the images of worst-case scenarios jumping out. “What if one of my parents get in a car accident today?” “What if I get home and my dog is dead.” “What if I have an unknown illness in my body right now?” I hear the overhead speaker beep, announcing a student is needed in the office. I hear one of the voices in my head rise, consumed with thoughts I know are awful and no one wants to think about. Thoughts of death and failure, thoughts I know in the moment I should not be thinking about. We’re learning how to multiply numbers together in mathematics. Why am I thinking of a funeral? Waking up for school, I feel an all-consuming uneasiness. I feel nauseous to the point where it’s hard to breathe and explain to others. I cry and beg my mom to let me stay home from school. The days that she agrees, I lay my head on her lap, and she asks the same question,

“You wanted to stay home because you missed me, right?”

“Yes momma, that’s exactly it,” I say, even though some days it’s a lie.

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