My first day in an English speaking school.
I thought back, to everything, everything that had happened and where it all had started. Here, it had started here. Memories flooded back, memories of people, memories of places, memories of… of everything. With one last look around I took a deep breath and boarded the aeroplane, I was ready. I arrived the day before the start of the second semester. Though my things had arrived almost a week before, but I had been content living out of a suitcase if it meant I could spend more time at home. I sighed and looked around; they had tried to make the room nice, though from what I was feeling, all I wanted was my bed, in my flat, in my country. Looking around once more, I saw framed pictures of words- English, of course- I could not really read them. I felt betrayed, like someone had mocking me by putting them there. I was crying, I couldn’t stop; everything felt like it was cracking, falling apart at the seams. I had never felt so alone; I wasn’t close to anyone, not to my dad, step mom, brother, I didn’t feel I would ever be close to anyone. I fell to sleep feeling hopeless, alone, and desperate. Almost an hour later, someone was knocking on my door, calling my name. The voice was soft and American, blending the syllables of my name; I was being called to dinner. When I arrived downstairs, I found the food prepared was not too different from that of my home, I was at least a bit comforted because of that. While having dinner, my step mother and brother tried to converse with me, because I had prided myself in knowing a bit of English. I soon found out this was not the case, when they would speak, it was slurred and natural; when I spoke, it was halted and awkward. My accent impeded some of pronunciation, I sounded like an infant. While the conversation was stilted, I felt at least a bit more at home. Before sleeping, my father informed me that I would be attending American school; I would have a translator...
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