A wall of bricks crashed all over me, dull and long lasting contusions making themselves home on my body. The ecstasy that was welling in my body from the warm June sun beckoning me to spend a Friday afternoon outside immediately concocted into a dreadful cocktail of stress and anxiety the instant I read the Canvas announcement on my phone: A 50-point history project due at midnight.
Why would you drop this on me now? I pondered, nearly letting out a scream in the crowded school bus loop while silently chastising my teacher in futility. A full quarter of dedication to AP World and now this. A drop of watery shame fell from my left eyeball as I clambered onto the bus, scrolling through the directions of the project on my phone. It had been assigned over a week ago; my own memory had failed me, not the teacher.
“Ah!” squeaked a small, malleable object.
I let out a sigh with equal parts frustration and depression. The dread in my soul was so heavy that my usual social anxiety when choosing who to sit with had completely disappeared. I had accidentally seated myself on a round-faced boy with glasses as thick as a man’s thumb; it was Ben, the 9th grader whose obsession was to show off “toys” that he took from his dad’s DARPA laboratory in a weak attempt to make friends.
“C-c-could you please, uh, dismount me?” the freshman stuttered.
“C-c-could you please, uh, stop bringing this random bullcrap to school so there’s actually room for people to sit on the bus?” I mocked him, pointing at his backpack, which was at least the size of Newark. “Half of your body is in the aisle right now!”
“This… bullcrap, as you call it—” the short boy grunted, his face red now, as he was still crushed under my weight, “—is going to get me an easy A in AP World while you hopelessly cry yourself to sleep tonight.” I raised my fist in retort, ready to pound in his smug little face, but the boy let out a quick smirk and quickly pressed a button in his oversized bag.
“You won’t last a second in 1350 if you keep up that attitude,” the freshman smirked. “Have fun being bedridden with the Black Death for the rest of your pathetic li—”
The high-pitched voice grew further and further away until…
I landed smack dab into the middle of a table, cracking plates and smashing food while hearing slurred screams and exclamations around me. Dirty and inflamed faces surrounded me, their eyes squinting under the weak light of the torches that lined walls with even weaker supports. I nodded and smiled sheepishly to those around me in an attempt to make myself look as unthreatening as possible.
“WHY DID THE DRINKING STOP?” bellowed a bowling ball of a man while his saliva flew out of his crusty beard. In a drunken stupor, the peasants seemed to forget that another human being from the future just landed onto their table from thin air and proceeded to drink away. Without any inhibitions to hold me down, and willing to drink away my anxiety, I took a mug from a sleeping man and took a chug. Desperate for more, I looked around the tavern until l wandered into the storeroom and continued to down more liquor. Minutes turned into hours and I eventually found myself on the ground outside.
The aroma of cooking meats snaked its way into my nostrils, which failed to politely rouse me from my deep sleep. The half gallon of liquor I had drunk made me invincible to any disturbances to my rest; it made the mud I was sinking into feel like a mother embracing me like I was her newborn child.
Or so I thought.
A firm, leathery object smashed into my stomach, which made my eyes fly wide open. Sensation spread over my body like electricity as I felt the fat drops of rain pounding against my exposed flesh, the itchy crawling fleas underneath my tattered shirt, and most importantly the absence of breathable air in my abdomen. My lungs clawed for oxygen as I achingly rolled over to my side, my movements slowed due to the lead ball of pain lying on my belly.
"The thief’s alive,” claimed a thick North English accent, which emanated from a redhead with a physique just as robust as her vocal timbre.
“I’ll cut his throat!” squealed a hoarse voice behind me. “He sounds like he needs an extra breathing-hole anyway.” A yellowed, bony hand wracked with premature arthritis came into view and rested a grimy blade on my windpipe. The bartender’s wife looked at the knife in disapproval.
“Burn him with the afflicted ones instead. I want to see him scream, to suffer.” The sturdy woman let a sadistic grin slip. “His pain will teach the others what will happen to them if they harm our business.”
“I love how you think, my dear,” the bartender chuckled while letting the dirty metal slide out of his hand. “I knew you were the one when I first laid eyes on you, even though all the other villagers said you were an irrational thinker, I didn’t care because I knew—”
“—rational thoughts never drive people’s creativity the way emotions do.” The woman finished the sentence while beaming at her beloved husband. With that, she hoisted me up on her shoulder and started towards the grand bonfire in the distance, while I, too inebriated to scream or resist, wondered why I let myself get caught up in a 14th century drinking party, or chose to lose all of my rational thinking just for a project for a high school history class.