I march into my familiar bedroom, and a cloud of cradling warm air envelopes me. I slam the thick oak door behind me and hurl myself onto the bed. The salty sweat stuck to my oversized gym shirt begins to soak through my comforter as my fists and teeth clench together. I think of the four hour basketball practice I just endured, and how my hostile basketball never touched the hoop, how my dribbling was unsteady and unrefined, and my breathing was lost in the first five minutes of drills. Why did I ever join the team in the first place? Oh right, it was because Jane told me the popular kids played basketball, only losers take after school art classes. I take a long deep sigh, and reach for my math binder down in the bottom of my backpack. But my eyes began to grow heavier and heavier until…

I amble silently among the durable concrete sidewalk, heading exactly where I was told. I gradually strain my thick neck to the left, and glance at the glistening silver and black building, stretching for miles and miles off into the distance. I straighten my neck and proceed forward. A fissure of lightning goes off with an empowering bang, lighting up the opaque sky. My light feet gently pat the sidewalk with the lightest touch, making the ding of a sweet Christmas bell. Directly in my path, the shape of a boy begins to form. Little particles of his body bubble and flicker until there he is, just sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk. My hands begin to quiver, my breathing picking up. This is really happening, I thought. His eyes are full of unconditional fear, his jaw straighten, chattering teeth clenched tightly together, attempting to resist the quivering. I tread a little swifter until I stand right before him. We stare into each other’s tense eyes, aware of the devastation we might soon endure.
The boy is just how I expected him to look: tall, dark thick hair, olive eyes and skin. He tremulously stands to his feet and reaches out his hand. Without hesitation I reach out mine. We are in this together.
He reaches into the deep pocket of his jeans and grabs a long, polished, silver tree branch. He taps it gently three times and it begins to glow. My eyes widen as do his. He picks his arm up into the air with great strain and begins to draw with the twig, his hand trembling, and beads of sweat condensing on his brow. Right in the air he sketches silver lines and circles, until there sits a thick heavy mirror, sparkling along the edges. It levitates in the air, and we both stand in penetrating silence. The boy takes a deep breath and slowly grabs the mirror from the air, his eyes bolted shut. I pat him gently on his strong shoulder. He swallows, then takes a long deep sigh. Gradually he opens his eyes.
He stares for a moment, then his eyes grow twice in size. He begins to breathe heavily and clenches the mirror with all his might. He screams an ear-piercing scream and throws the mirror directly at the school. The mirror flies through the crisp air, and inches before the school it whips around, spinning like a saucer, directly toward the boy. He stands there motionless in awe, too petrified to duck. The mirror hits him square in the head and the boy collapsed to the sturdy sidewalk, blood pumping from his forehead. The mirror arrogantly falls to the ground right beside him.
I shriek a scream equally as ear piercing as his and crumble to the ground. I shake his strong shoulders vigorously in attempt to wake him up, sobbing onto his face. But he just lay there, eyes shut forever.
I glanced over at the silver mirror. It just sat there, beside my dead friend. I reach out my shaky hand toward it and carefully pick it up and sit it on my lap. There, written on the glass front, in red dripping font read “You can’t escape who you really are.”

I awoke with a jump, more layer of sweat soaked into my shirt, gasping for air. Oh thank god, it was just a dream, I thought to myself. But maybe that dream was trying to tell me something…and maybe I should listen. I can’t escape who I am, so why hide it? A wide grin forms on my face as I reach for my backpack, prepared to sign up for after school art classes.