“The psychological rule says that when an inner situation is not made conscious, it happens outside, as fate.” — Carl Jung
The first stroke wasn’t me. It looked straight enough, clean enough, what anyone would expect. But it was a lie. I drew it because I thought that’s what the world wanted — the version of me that looked right on paper, that passed inspection. Then I drew another line, the real one. Crooked, imperfect, alive. The truth surfaced: the first line lies. It always has.
The room hummed with the sound of pens scratching, shoes scuffing tile. Chalk squeaked a white scar across the board. Mr. Bunting turned with the slow rhythm of a man who had taught the same sentence for twenty years.
I sat in the back row, thumb against tongue. Warm film. A small shelter. I thought I was invisible.
Then the laughter cracked. Not the kind you join — the kind that hunts. I froze, thumb half-out, shining. He saw me. Chalk still in his hand. A mouth twisted into a sneer honed for sport.
“Powell. Fourteen and still sucking your thumb? God help you.”
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