Air - A Short Story [addressing mental illness in our young folk and our schools]

Air
Oh yes, here it is. I’m flying.
It feels like that, it really does. I bet it’s because my feet aren’t on the floor.
Okay, no, I lied… “my” feet are actually on the ground. But they’re not mine. So it doesn’t count. I can’t even feel them. Are you wondering how I managed this? Well keep wondering. I can’t say. It’s illegal. Seriously.
It’s amazing actually. I can’t tell anyone about it though, simply because they wouldn’t get it. I get it, because I’m a damn genius.
If you’ve ever been as smart as me and got to experience the sensation of flying… then you’d understand. And if you’re a bird, well how the hell did you learn how to read? Seriously.
By the way, listeners, I’m coming to you live from the hallways of my school. Just wandering around here. It’s as if my legs have ballpoint tips on the bottom of them that rolled out ink and I was skating around a paper, doodling. I bet I would make a really stupid piece of art with my wandering. It’s just random, and people who don’t understand abstract art simply wouldn’t get it. No one would get it. No one ever does.
To be completely honest with you I don’t actually enjoy walking on air—mainly because I’m the ‘air’ in this situation. Me, my legs… sometimes it’s even my hand, my mouth, my head. Air, air, air.
Actually the reason I’m wandering the halls is because I no longer had sufficient air in class. I had no focus on my work either, so why stay? Seriously.
I got up and walked out. I actually didn’t get my legs switched until right when I was wandering.
I didn’t wander long before I heard a voice call my name. I whipped around, feeling the air whoosh around me in the almost empty hallway. Not empty enough. The air was disturbed.
My teacher stood at the corner I had just turned and beckoned me to come towards her. “Why did you just walk out of class?”
“I… I…” Oh shit. Tears sprung into my eyes.
“Take your time.”
Sniffed some air. Wiped the tears—persistent things. “Needed a walk.”
“What’s wrong? You don’t have to be specific, just tell me generally. Are you upset about something?”
‘No no, I’m just…” more tears. Stop it, dammit. “Let’s just…say I’m sick.”
“Do you have a cold?”
“Not that kind of sick.”
“Then?”
“I just…can’t help this.” I motioned to the tears gushing out of my eyes.
“Oh. So you just need a walk then.”
What the hell was I saying before. “Yeah.”
She allowed me to go but said not to leave the second floor and also return to check in. Screw you. You don’t understand. You’re not suddenly air. I am.
I walked and my head filled with air. I needed real air.
Screw what she says. I ran downstairs and burst outside, choking on my tears. Stop, stop, stop.
I finally did, but the feeling of crying didn’t go away. At least I could breathe real air and be with the likes of me, be with the air that so mocked me. Screw school; I’m done. Crazy people shouldn’t go to school anyway.