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     “The guillotines,” I whispered, pressing my hands again the window. The damn pieces of metal sat there on the grass, so reflective they seemed to be producing a light of their own.
     “What are you talking about?” she asked, looking through the glass. “The bleachers?”
     “Yeah,” I nodded, still watching. “Don’t they look like guillotines do you?”
She said no, she didn’t see it. So I shrugged, told her to never mind it, and gave      her as little thought as she gave me.
Graduation had always felt like a sentence to me. I tried to savour every last day, and even had a last meal, no matter what I had always felt about cafeteria food. I think everybody did that day, even if it was just a muffin.
There were three days left now, and they had put the bleachers out in front of the school to mock us. It’s like they didn’t want us to forget that soon enough, we’d be walking over the stage outside, to sit on those damn metal benches and await our sentence.
     There’s no room for us here anymore. And what’ll be left? An empty locker, a corner seat in the cafeteria, and a dozen old textbooks. Never mind them though—they’ll all be taken by freshman next year anyway, who won’t know who we were, never mind care. Even if you’d been so daring as to carve your name into a desk, it didn’t matter. Just because your name is on something doesn’t mean its yours.
     A couple of months ago, I found “Sharky Was Here” written into one of the legs of the art desks. I remember him too—I thought everybody would. Shawn “Sharky” Levins—I don’t know where he got the nickname, but that’s not important. He was probably the most well known kid in the school last year, which at the time seemed important, but now I realize how silly the thought was. How many other people had noticed his last attempt to leave an impression on the school? Did they even know who he was? Did they care? Either way, they won’t soon. Because in two years, he won’t even have existed.
     It’s like death—graduation, that is. You don’t know what’s coming, and if you think about it too long it’ll drive you insane. That’s the mistake I made. And all you can really do is hope that even though you’ve been forced out, that there is some sort of afterlife. And that maybe, just maybe, you’ll be remembered for a little bit. Maybe by a teacher, maybe through legend, and maybe by something on a desk.
     I don’t know what’s going to happen after the twenty-first. I’ll probably walk across the stage, shake a couple hands, take my diploma, and wonder why the balloons all say “congratulations” instead of “condolences”. But I’ve got to hope there’s an afterlife. If not, they why go on? Why not just throw myself in the river before the guillotines get me? That way I’d sure to be remembered.
     I walked away from the windows, towards class. The last mile had never felt longer. But as I placed one foot in front of the other, I began thinking.
     I think I’ll go and carve my name into my locker. Just incase.

Description
     “The guillotines,” I whispered, pressing my hands again the window. The damn pieces of metal sat there on the grass, so reflective they seemed to be producing a light of their own.
     “What are you talking about?” she asked, looking through the glass. “The bleachers?”
     “Yeah,” I nodded, still watching. “Don’t they look like guillotines do you?”
She said no, she didn’t see it. So I shrugged, told her to never mind it, and gave      her as little thought as she gave me.
Graduation had always felt like a sentence to me. I tried to savour every last day, and even had a last meal, no matter what I had always felt about cafeteria food. I think everybody did that day, even if it was just a muffin.
There were three days left now, and they had put the bleachers out in front of the school to mock us. It’s like they didn’t want us to forget that soon enough, we’d be walking over the stage outside, to sit on those damn metal benches and await our sentence.
     There’s no room for us here anymore. And what’ll be left? An empty locker, a corner seat in the cafeteria, and a dozen old textbooks. Never mind them though—they’ll all be taken by freshman next year anyway, who won’t know who we were, never mind care. Even if you’d been so daring as to carve your name into a desk, it didn’t matter. Just because your name is on something doesn’t mean its yours.
     A couple of months ago, I found “Sharky Was Here” written into one of the legs of the art desks. I remember him too—I thought everybody would. Shawn “Sharky” Levins—I don’t know where he got the nickname, but that’s not important. He was probably the most well known kid in the school last year, which at the time seemed important, but now I realize how silly the thought was. How many other people had noticed his last attempt to leave an impression on the school? Did they even know who he was? Did they care? Either way, they won’t soon. Because in two years, he won’t even have existed.
     It’s like death—graduation, that is. You don’t know what’s coming, and if you think about it too long it’ll drive you insane. That’s the mistake I made. And all you can really do is hope that even though you’ve been forced out, that there is some sort of afterlife. And that maybe, just maybe, you’ll be remembered for a little bit. Maybe by a teacher, maybe through legend, and maybe by something on a desk.
     I don’t know what’s going to happen after the twenty-first. I’ll probably walk across the stage, shake a couple hands, take my diploma, and wonder why the balloons all say “congratulations” instead of “condolences”. But I’ve got to hope there’s an afterlife. If not, they why go on? Why not just throw myself in the river before the guillotines get me? That way I’d sure to be remembered.
     I walked away from the windows, towards class. The last mile had never felt longer. But as I placed one foot in front of the other, I began thinking.
     I think I’ll go and carve my name into my locker. Just incase.