As my now crystal glazed eyes glance around the room, the first tear falls slipping quick, smooth, fast, but not alone.  The rest of the tears join, my heart joins the band, and the beat flows loudly.  I slide my head in my arms, the bell rings and speedily I walked, longing to be in Mrs. Wazbey room. The hall seems to go on forever, I peer up it looks like a beach that goes on for eternity.  The bell rings once again, nowhere near silence, I duck into Mrs. Wazbeys room. I lean onto the first corner I could reach and slide down the wall.
Mrs. Wazbey understands me well, were close in age.  Shes 16 and in 13, but shes married because of her religion, her husband was picked for her before she was born. 

“What's wrong,” she says tenderly stroking my face.

“I had to read my essay, and someone moved their desk and it made that... sound” I said ducking and bursting into tears.

“It's alright, its alright” she strokes my hair.

People think I'm insane because I freak at random sounds. I have a rare phobia Misophonia, literally "hatred of sound", is a rarely diagnosed neuropsychiatric disorder in which negative emotions (anger, flight, hatred, disgust) are triggered by specific sounds. The sounds can be loud or soft. She reaches for her phone, to call home.

“No”, I shout, “I don't need to go home,” my mom said if I go home I need to go to MTG. MTG is a mental, well phobia hospital or home.  MTG stands for Mental Terminal Gifts. I'm not mental, am I?  I peer out of the narrow window next to the door. The halls, all clear, like fresh blue water. I jog down the now shortened hall until I reach my locker, I swing open the door grab my science book and notebook. Carefully I close my locker, so no noise comes from it. Then I jog, walk, and run to science.

Too nervous to knock, afraid to walk in, I slip into the door and walk head down to my seat.

“Dropped your books again,” she asked sarcastically, children laughing in the background. I just slip my books under my chair and she continues the lesson.

My teachers know nothing of my disorder other than the tutor, Mrs. Wazbey. So every time I go into the classroom late, I make a stupid excuse. Yesterday have I dropped my books, today, well you know what happened. We exit class at the flashing ring of the, calming yet nerve-racking bell. My locker quickly swings open as I grab my last books, Language Arts.

I love it. So gentle, the way the clock ticks, the way she talks, and writing, I love it. Of course, Language Arts goes rather fast, ready to go home, the bell rings. That's when I hear it my name called to see the teacher, the lump in my throat builds, as I walk toward her desk. She hands me a paper.

It says TRAPPED in big bold letters, “I want you to write this subject for a competition”, she states proudly. I just let ok a smile and leave, I skip homeroom and go straight to the bus.

On the bus I begin my writing, the paper had options, a poem, an essay, or a creative story. I pick poem no thought about it, I think for a moment then it flows out of me.

   Trapped inside this body
  Stuck with no way out
   My ears take all the pleasure
   But my heart screams and shouts
  My eyes take all my tears
   My head takes all my fears
But I'm trapped inside this body
   I'm stuck with no way out

The next day I gulp, turn it in, she begins to read and then stops.

“Ugg so sentimental,” she says broadly flopping the paper down.

I look at her and don't want to cry, I don’t know what came over me but I feel good, and I'm proud I pick up my paper and say “Thank you for your opinion” then walk away.

I stop in Mrs. Wazbeys room smile give her the paper, now I’m proud of who I am. I still don't like noises but I'm trapped inside this body, but I've escaped my trapped image.