30 Days of Writing: Day Ten

Day 10.

Well it is late at night but I am publishing something none the less. So I am going to post an excerpt from a short fiction I worked pretty hard on. All rights reserved, blah blah blah. I hope you enjoy it! Maybe it will peak your interest enough to want to read the rest. If that is true comment on the post! The whole piece is entitled “We Are All Dust”

 

 

“Hey kid, wanna play four square with us til our moms get here?”

The voice of the squeaky 2nd grader distracted me from my wobbling knees for a brief moment. “No thanks.” I thought a simple no would have been enough to end the conversation.

“Come on! Don’t be such a wussy!” His whining made it clear that they needed a fourth player and I was the only other student around. I have these moments sometimes where I believe my fantasies can become reality. These moments where I truly believe that when I step away from the wall I am leaning on I will feel a surge of strength. These short-lived moments of confusion are normally dashed away by reality. I stepped away from the wall and both of my legs buckled.

I wonder sometimes what others think when they see me fall. It doesn’t look anything like what happens when a somebody falls. When a something falls, it is without grace or stability. It is similar to a limp loaf of bread smacking the pavement. A something flops. A something doesn’t cry, but a something bleeds. And this time I bled a lot. At least it seemed more than usual as I sat back and pulled my knees in close to my chest. I watched as the thick syrupy red leaked out and soaked my white rolled down socks. The kid who asked me to play had his ride arrive moments later. I overheard his mother asking her son if that older boy was okay. I saw her son shrug and I watched them both drive away. I didn’t want their help anyway. A something doesn’t need other people to help. That is reserved for a somebody.

Eventually, my mother arrived and helped me into her car. By then my shins were caked with blood and my tears were dried up. My mother never has words to say to me in times like these. I wondered more than once if she wished she didn’t have a something. Still she tended to my bumps and bruises, the ones she could see, and I was grateful. We sat and had dinner together, she made sure I did my homework, and she excused me from the table to go to bed early. She knew I was extra tired from the day and I knew I wanted to be alone. She prayed with me, she thanked God for me, kissed my forehead and walked out leaving me to lie under my blankets staring at the wall.

I waited until I could hear the TV playing from down the hall and sat up in bed. My knees were still pink and sore as I knelt on my bed to reach under and grab my flashlight. I walked over to my desk and grabbed a pencil and my journal hidden away in the back of my top drawer. I crawled back under my covers with the flashlight in my mouth and my two hands struggling to scribble and hold open my journal at the same time.

Dear God,

            I hate this. I hate you.

            Mom says you used to help people all the time.

            Why won’t you help me?

The tip of my pencil point broke and I threw my journal on the floor in frustration. I pulled my blanket over my head and allowed a few stray salty drops to fall onto my pillow. I wanted so badly for my life to just be one long bad dream. A nightmare that I would eventually wake up from. I squeezed my eyelids tightly until my muscles’ exhaustion overtook my emotions and I fell heavy into sleep.

 

BGTF

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