The Timebound.

  My back slams into a locker, the slits of the grate digging into my neck. I’m held by the throat, me stuck holding my attacker’s hands thanks to the accursed survival instinct.

  “Don’t you get your place yet, idiot?” this stupid bully asks, having nothing better to do than waste my time. She smirks in my face, a constant reminder of my own helpless fate.

  “I do,” I sigh, still struggling against her grasp against my own will. “So? What’s the point?”

  “Nothing, you dark-chocolate miscreant.” I’m sorry, miscreant?

  I can’t help but smirk -- “I’m sorry Daddy didn’t let you learn how to talk normally.”

  I can see the veins in her head pop, to my own amusement. “YOU-” she starts, then shoving my head into the locker again.

  ...

  OW, my head hurts. She knocked me out again, didn’t she?

  Sigh, this body has gone through enough physical trauma. I don’t need to keep making it worse. Yet I can’t seem to help it; if I can’t control myself, I may as well enjoy the ride along the way, as much as I can. I can’t change, this world can’t change, so I can at least see how this world pretends to adjust to my actions. I feel the back of my head, slightly sticky with blood. I look at my hand, only a slight trace of it. It isn’t great, but the damage is better than I expected.

  Magic was allowed in this reality, right?... Right, it was -- this is a magical high school, after all; despite the fact that it spends more of its time on basic education like reading and mathematics than how to control one’s magic. Those are usually left to magic tutors, and God knows how awful they can be if you aren’t rich. Some things always seem to remain the same, no matter the time period. It’s to the point where my stupid orphanage burdens me and only me to teach the younger kids. Yes, let the high school student teach young adolescents how magic works, what a wonderful idea. At least I have millenia of magic experience, making the job somewhat tolerable. Yet everyone in that orphanage is such an idiot that they don’t question the system -- they just roll with the punches.

  Ah well, there’s no point dwelling on the past -- I already know how much I reminisce on a reality that could have been. I need to focus on the now, even if it’s pointless. Blood trickles down the back of my head, starting to stain my blonde ponytail. I may as well fix that; I summon bandages between my palms, then wrap them around my head, the magical construct becoming physical. In reality, these ‘bandages’ are just streams of paper, but adjusting the consistency is often enough to achieve the same effect. I look over myself in the locker reflection, my ‘dark brown’ skin thankfully not marred by that conflict. I hate it when people use chocolate -- personally, I’d prefer the word ‘umbral’ -- it’s a bit high-class and obscure, but it more accurately fits the reddish tones that make my clay-like skin pop and sand out.

  I just open the door harshly, slamming it open and letting the knob knock against the wall.

  “Ms!” my teacher scolds, already on my case. “This is-”

  “Inexcusable behavior for a late student,” I finish, rolling my eyes. “Now can I sit down?”

  He gets on his high horse and looks down on my 5’4’’ ass -- “Can you?”

  “Apparently not.” In response, I turn back the way I came.

  “Tch tch,” he scolds. “Don’t you realize-”

  “That one more incident is all I need to get expelled?” I ask, tired of all of this repetition. It’s not even funny how all of my teachers were awful. “Then just expel me already, I’m sure that would look good on your teacher record.”

  He groans, now hoping I would leave.

  So I won’t do that -- I take my seat in the exact center of the room, desk already written with messages -- simple, childish things about me being a loser, about how I’m awful with magic, about how I can’t defend myself. They’re mostly true mind you, depending on who you ask, but it’s stupid -- these brats think that the only thing that matters is strength. They can’t even imagine a world where might doesn’t make right.

  Yet it doesn’t matter how aware I am of this reality; inevitably, I’ll be some part of a feud that ultimately proves this philosophy. Eventually, I’ll be doomed to die protecting the one thing I hate the most. It’s happened before, and it will happen again. I wish I had some alcohol to numb the pain, even if this body can’t handle it. At least I don’t have any adults to tell me off for being irresponsible.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  And then it’s silly just how much people hate me -- seriously? This bully and teacher have nothing better to do than mock a girl trying to get by who’s apathetic to their ways of life?

  I swear, I’m going to give myself an aneurysm if I have to keep handling this bullshit.

  “And now,” the teacher starts, “I’ll hand out your essays from last week.” Was that essay focused on the USA’s government, or the system of philanthropy? “Some of you clearly need to study our material on the Civil War better.” Ah, slavery. I can’t wait to see what my teacher thought of the fact that slavery goes on today and is endorsed by America, albeit indirectly. How is he going to grade it this time?

  As he passes me my paper first, out of everyone else in the class, I look over -- a 0%, exactly. I now have a claim to a Civil Action lawsuit! If I had a pon for how often that happened, I could melt down the coins and form a black hole. ... Oh wait, they use pennies, not pons anymore. Right, pons were a currency from bygone times. Though I probably deserved the grade since I spent a quarter of the essay focusing on the actual Civil War. It’s not my fault the same history keeps repeating itself and gets boring to talk about! At the same time, it’s monotonous when the same calamities and civil right violations keep repeating themselves.

  I sincerely hope this world burns down to ash.

  My teacher then snaps in my face. I lazily glance up, only moving my eyes. “Also, clean yourself up,” he scolds.

  With a drawl in my voice, I answer, “I will after school ends.” What could he even be talking about?

  ... Oh right, the blood -- it’s probably still on my shirt. The point still stands, I’ll clean up at the orphanage.

  I then just lean back in my seat, looking at the clock. It’s only 9:10 and I’m going to have to be here until 3:30. God, end my suffering for all of time, or I’m going to overtake your throne.

  The speaker in the classroom then buzzes. “Attention Mr. Annopel, may you come to the office?” Is that my teacher, or-

  “Class, please focus while I handle this,” he states, finally done passing out papers. Wow, he was quick with that; or I’ve just gotten better at dozing off when people ‘say something important.’

  Time to doze off again!

  “So Claude,” one of the students starts. “You heard about what happened in the morning with that student?”

  MOTHER FU-

  “Yeah, it was pretty cruel what happened to that girl,” the white whipped-cream looking ass boy says, somehow handsome to everyone else. I guess a chiseled chin and ‘glass white skin’ looks attractive??? Are people’s standards really that low? Like, damn, y’all need better taste.

  Haahhh, what am I doing, complaining about my fate?

  I already know how this ends anyways: I’m just a plot device. I’ll get bullied and die pretty soon as a result, which then starts the journey of our hero. Go figure. And why is it always white people who are the main characters anyways?

  I lean back in my seat, looking at the flickering fluorescent light. This is how my life always is: I’m born, I remember, I live, I die, and it starts again. This is how it was, and this is how it will always be. No matter how hard I try, I can’t escape. Not even the end of time is the end. Why is it so hard for God to just give up on me?

  “Anyways, are you alright?” the boy calls out to me.

  I don’t even bother to look at him. “Just peachy,” I snark.

  “Hey, why do you talk with that girl?” one of his forgettable classmates asks, ticking me off. Is this how young women feel when people call them old? I’ve been in the shower longer than he’s been alive, he should show respect to his elders!

  “Because everyone deserves kindness,” he answers back in that irritatingly calm tone. Pffftt-

  I giggle, managing to draw his attention. “Oh please,” I mock the starry-eyed hero, “it’s only so long until I become your enemy for speaking the truth.” You know, maybe I do meet my end because I ‘snapped’ and wanted to change this cruel world, only for the hero to return everything to normal. What a fucking nightmare.

  He opens his mouth, before I wave my finger.

  “Ah-ah-ah, because ‘It’s so pessimistic’, isn’t it?” I predict, taking the breath from his mouth, leaving him wondering if I could read his mind. “Besides, you’ll turn on me,” I sigh, tired again. I slump over on my desk, putting my head down. “You all will.”

  The door creaks open. “Ahem,” the teacher calls out. “As it turns out, we have a new student.” Ah, the transfer student trope. My guess -- a white guy. No wait, a pale paper-white girl with blond hair and blue eyes, petite, thin, and the ideal model for ‘99% of men’. If they’re feeling daring, maybe they have colored hair.

  “Well, ‘allo then!” a rather deep voice greets. I look up, seeing...

  A mahogany-skinned black girl, adorned in a blue long-sleeve and jeans, torn and stained with blood. Her belt clinks as she takes a glorious bow to the class, her long blond hair drooping down into her face. If it weren’t for the slight golden tones like a star, she’d look almost exactly like me.

  “Ack!” she spits out, some of her own hair getting in her mouth. She stands up right away, then gives a salute -- “Aliza Margrave, Breaker of War!” she greets with an annoying positivity. She’s... not what I was expecting. She’s a girl with blond hair... though I can’t exactly call her petite if she’s taller and a bit more built than me. Considering how racist people can be, she’s not the ‘ideal’ model. As for her eyes, she has heterochromia -- one eye a fiery red, the other like the blue of a gas stove. Overall, that makes me about half-right.

  Well, she’s probably going to be the main rival then -- someone who serves to challenge our protagonist until he beats her.

  “So,” she starts, jumping onto the teacher’s desk with her red sneakers, “I am here from the future! Shocking, I know,” she brushes off, waving her hand to the side. “Anyways, I’m just here to see the most important person here.”

  “That could be me-” Claude starts, only for Aliza to teleport on his desk and boop him on the nose.

  “Nope! Not you. Just a Wynette!” Now, who’s that?

  “You... mean her?” Claude asks, pointing to me. Why is he- OH, I am Wynette Ameno this time around. Whoops.

  With that, Aliza claps her hands and leans on my desk. “Oh, we’ll have so much fun!” she starts, giggling to herself.

  What did I get myself into?