Writing on the wall

By scribblesbyz

In the four years I had been going to Franklin High School, I had usually ignored all the writing in the bathroom. My freshman year was the first year they remodeled the entire school since it opened in the 1940's. Since then, each bathroom had become progressively covered with graffiti, ranging from simple “Alice was here” and “Mark is sexy” one-liners to profanity up the yin-yang, drawings of body parts—very popular in the boys bathroom—and even the occasional Shakespeare quote by the drama kids that felt under appreciated and wanted to add their two cents, too. It started in the stalls, on the dividing walls, then to the doors, both sides. Eventually it spread to the actual walls, trash cans, even the sinks and paper towel dispensers. It was a never ending canvas for the juvenile.
I read the first few scribbles that appeared on the freshly painted walls. I remembered that “Mrs. Brooks is a bitch” and that “Emily sucks balls...really.” I had gotten a glimpse of what the boys would write on their walls with the help from my friend Dylan. I learned that the boys were twice as graphic and ten times more crude. However, the “ye hath been owned bitch” phrase that was coined on the boys' wall in B Building did make me laugh for a good five minutes—I eventually took that phrase and used it on a daily basis.
By my sophomore year, I didn't pay much attention to the gossip or latest cat fight insult that made its way on the tiles. It also didn't matter how many times it'd be repainted, the walls would just be covered again by the next afternoon. Even if I did try to keep up with the Bathroom's Daily Scoop, I wouldn't be able to distinguish what was old news and what was new. There were too many things written in every bathroom to keep track.
Now, as odd as it sounds, I had a routine when I went to the bathroom. I usually took a break from my Economics class fifth period and went to the bathroom in F Building. I would use the second stall and use the sink closet to the paper towel dispenser. Rarely did my routine ever change, so anyone could probably bet on my routine every day. Nothing strange ever happened, nothing out of the ordinary. Not until February 4th.

“Zoe,” my friend Amber, sitting next to me with her legs crossed in her chair, lifted her head. “Where are you going?”
I pushed in my chair. “Bathroom.” It was half way through fifth period, my usual time I slipped out of class for a few minutes, meandering down the hall to the bathroom.
When I pushed the door open, the room was empty, like it usually was during that period. I finished up and washed my hands in the sink on the end. I looked up in the mirror for a brief moment, and as I was about to lower by head again, something caught my eye. I stared at it, not believing what it was. My hands froze, leaving the water to flow over my arms. The water had to be running for a good two minutes straight before I finally turned off the faucet. I continued to stare at the wall in front of me, then I glanced around, hoping to find someone else there, but I was completely alone. I reread it a dozen times more, making sure I was reading it right.
“What the fuck?” I mumbled to myself.
There, written on the wall, was the most disturbing thing I'd ever read: I killed him, Zoe.

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Writing on the wall

Created: Jul 21, 2010

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