1941, School

"Peter," the teacher said. "You need to pay attention. Now tell me, what's 11 + 11 equal?" Peter strained his mind to act mischievous and get the answer wrong on purpose. "One, one, ... one, one?" The teacher looked irritated as the class groaned, "You've lost your flair, Peter."  Peter lowered his head, ready to be slapped with the ruler. This time, he was slapped 22 times. What a coincidence. 

"That's right, Peter," a voice that sounded like his best friend, Andrew, whispered in his ear. "You've lost your flair, popularity, and confidence." Not like I had it in the first place, Peter retorted in his mind, trying to end the argument between himself... and himself. 

The voice grew quieter until it was dead silent. He buried his face in his arms, saying, "I just want to die." The class, "overhearing" him by a tattler behind him, whispering what he was saying, leaned closer to listen in on his miserable words. 

After School

Peter walked as hastily out of school as he could, keeping his head down and out of sight. But he accidentally walked straight into a loitering teenager named Bud. 

He turned to face the seven-year-old boy lying back-down on the asphalt with dusty corduroy pants. 

"What's your deal, Nancy?" the boy leaned down towards Peter with a menacing attitude. "'The big boy accidentawee mess up your dwessy?" 

"Shut up," said Peter quietly. The boy's posse 'oohed. "Ya think you're tough, don'cha, Nancy?" Peter struggled to get up as the older boys pinned him down, laughing. One boy, named Tom, got directly on top of him. "Not so tough now, are you?" Passing students widened their eyes at the boy being bullied, but upon realizing it was Peter, they nodded and walked on. 

Before Peter could control it, words flowed out of his mouth, "Drop dead, Tom." Peter flew his free fist into Tom's nose. Blood spurted everywhere and an unpleasant crunch followed. Tom yelled in agony, then said as he scrambled to his feet, "You'll be the one dropping dead when I'm finished with you!"

Peter sprinted to his house as fast as he could, not caring that his surprisingly cheap corduroy pants were ripped. He threw his backpack on the marble step of the front door and slipped into his backyard. There was the old elm tree with his wooden swing. Peter ran to sit on it and grabbed his notebook and pencil from a nearby stump that served exceptionally well as a table.

Dear Diary, he wrote. He paused, bringing the eraser to his lips, thinking silently.

Today, at school, I failed at being the friend that I was supposed to. I broke the promise of never harming a student; only pranking. But this was beyond pranking, it was bullying. But the only thing that has me troubled is the fact that nobody stopped to even look. But I know why...

They think I'm mad. 

They think the voices I hear in my head are just my imagination. And maybe they're right. But why would someone continuously imagine voices that throw themselves down and beat them up every single mistake they make? Isn't imagination in your hands, not a disorder's? It can't be my imagination.

I'll report back tomorrow, and this time...

there had better not be another note inside...

-Peter

Peter closed the journal with his hands shaking. Maybe he was mad. Maybe he wasn't. But his serious question throbbed loudly through his brain: Why would someone continuously imagine voices that throw themselves down and beat them up every single mistake they make? Isn't imagination in your hands, not a disorder's?

Peter threw the journal aside and pumped his legs feverishly as to gain a height on the swing. As he swung forward, he leapt off of the wooden swing and isolated the notebook.