Tattoo Descriptive Writing

Tick Tick Tick”, I hear the unrelenting ticking of time on the clock that sits above me on the wall as obedient as ever. It counts down the time until we are released from school for the day. Mrs. Parks is scrambling to write down the last Math problem on the board. I don’t pay attention. I am very good at Mathematics. Next, to me, the girl with the tattoo on her thigh starts to put her notebooks away in a very loud fashion. She forcefully unzips her backpack, slams her notebooks closed, shoves them into her backpack and finally, releases an exasperated sigh as if this whole routine was seemingly painful. She is eager to get home, I would assume, maybe. “Tick Tick Tick” I become more aware of the servile sound, thrumming on and on, almost louder

My leg begins to shake too, shaking my desk with it, both acting without my permission as if they think they are helping me. I am starting to draw more uneasy attention to myself. The overwhelming ticking, the race between my pencil and leg tapping, the useless scrambling of Mrs. P’s last efforts, and the starring all comes to a climax when the bell rings; Thigh Tattoo apparently cares about something more than examining me, her foreign specimen. Shortly after the ear shattering bell comes a split second of silence, almost as if a bomb had just gone off in the classroom living our ears ringing. In almost perfect harmony disturbing the brief yet beautiful silence, notebooks clap close, zippers are zipping, I hear a total of ten chairs screech to a stop beneath their accompanied desk. Conversations start up between “my peers”, of course none with me. They pick up where they left off before class began. “What were you saying about that party this weekend?” one of the girls in my class says to another. Across the room, a boy Tom Childers pulls out his phone to text someone else back. He probably has a lot of messages to attend to, I could not imagine being so