A loud bell rings, bringing me back to life. I listen intently to the sound of my neighbors' dials spinning around to codes that are entered every day. Their doors slam with a hollow, echoey crash after their student digs out their next needed books.
And I look on with a longing state of admiration. My dial never spins. While all of the lockers around me get frequent visits from all different kinds of kids, I do not. While 181, to my right is opened by the blonde girl in the paint stained jeans, I look on, lonely. While locker 183, to my left is occupied by the books of the football player with the overpowering cologne cloud, I sit empty. And when 180, below me is covered with streamers for the birthday of the freckled, fire haired horseback rider, I lay blank.
For I am the extra locker. I am the locker with no child to occupy me. I am locker 182. The one extra locker. I lay blank, my inside empty, coated with dust as it sits forever blocked from the fluorescent lights of the hallway. The last time which I was opened, I cannot remember. The last time which I held a history notebook filled with sketches, I cannot remember. People pass me, none giving me any notice. None even seeing that I exist, for I am the extra locker, the abandoned, unused locker, unseen by the world.
In between the bells, lockers dream the pictures hung inside the lockers. The pictures from vacations, parties and birthdays. Lockers dream the names scrawled in Expo markers on their sides; Holly, Michael, Sophie. While my neighbors' dreams are vibrant, bursting with names, and sentimental pictures, my dreams are empty. My mind dreams aimlessly, empty, like my walls. My dust ridden walls that lack the kind of pictures that other's overflow with, and the names that other's encase. For I am the lonely, extra locker. I am the locker that almost doesn't exist.