Diary of a Struggling Senioritis Patient

Editorial Note: The following are works of EDITORIAL SATIRE and do not represent the views of the Register Forum.

Brian Liu, Contributing Writer

The horns hit me hard today. I almost didn’t have the strength to drag myself out of the cot. By the time I got to the yard, there was a sea of orange. Disturbingly, smiles were plastered on the other cellies’ faces as they joked around… fresh meat, for sure. My cold stares threatened to glacierize them, but they didn’t budge. I had to pick them up off the ground and toss them out of my way, one by one.

I didn’t get far, though. The Doctor saw to that. He’s the most cutthroat Jake on the igloo. My goon J-Shaw put me on to how he used to live foul. He made a fortune slinging Pink Lady apples back in ’95. When the Feds investigated, they found out he was putting hits out on fellow Pink Lady suppliers. The Doctor did his 10 years; now he claims he switched up. I know better, though. He doesn’t give test corrections, even though his tests are brutal.

“Where you going, shorty doo-wop?” His voice was as gravelly as always. When I turned to face him, he had his usual sneer. “Oh, you’re trying to skip class, huh? Feeling rebellious, huh? Get in line, punk. Kids like you need to be taught a lesson.” He started dragging me down the corridor until we entered the all-too-familiar room. Physics formulas decorated the whiteboards; with multimeters, power supplies, and resistors scattered all over the tables.

I thrashed around and dragged my feet as much as I could, knowing what was coming for me. With my last bit of energy, I managed the words, “You… can’t… break… me.” It was too late; he pulled out a homework quiz. The first question asked about the electric flux through a Gaussian surface. The Physics needles plunged into my brain, and I blacked out.

When I woke up, it was leisure time. My man Kale was sitting across from me. A chessboard lay in between us, already set up. I sulked, “I don’t want to play today. You always win, dunn.”

Kale didn’t budge. “Your mind dies incarcerated, baby pah. You need to elevate and maintain.” He moved his king’s pawn two spaces. I stared at the pawn. “Two months, kid. Yo, don’t stress, dunn dunn. Time is running out.” He was right; I knew my world don’t stop. I gracefully maneuvered myself into a checkmate within six moves and left the table before I could see Kale’s triumphant smirk.

I scratched another line on the wall of my cell with the white plastic spoon I keep stashed on the inside of my shoe sole. Three more months. The lights went out.

This piece also appears in our March 2023 print edition.