Battered
As a prepubescent tween, I wasn’t particularly good looking. Not ugly, but nothing to write home about either. Unfortunately, this was becoming more and more apparent as time progressed; at just 12, I was only beginning to understand that there were several hard years ahead of me. I didn’t exactly fit in with others my age. That wasn’t entirely my fault.
I set out for school at my regular time of five past the bell. My walking rhythm settled, and I rubbed my eyes in a somewhat vain attempt to wake up. My mind went over the English essay I’d finished last night – I was under no pretence that it would score well. Even in such an interpretive subject as English, I could never convince the teacher that my point of view was valid. In fact, I’m not the academic type. I’m not the sporty type either. I’ll get back to you on what type I am once I work it out for myself.
So anyhow, I was walking along the pavement to school when I got to the end of my street. I hurried across the intersection, and turned the corner to school. Insert six hours of boredom, loneliness and arguments here. I shouldered my bag, now heavy with homework, and exited the classroom.
As I crossed the road, it struck me as odd that there was no traffic around. No cars, no buses, no pedestrians. What struck me as odder was the silence. The absolute quiet. My small black shoes made dull taps on the concrete path. The only other noise was a distant rushing, or crumbling noise. I walked faster, brushing past the sticky overgrown bushes and stepping over dog deposits, McDonalds wrappers and the general rubbish on the streets. The rushing sound was growing louder. My brisk walk became a slow jog. I reached my house. What was left of it, anyway.
My home was a pile of smouldering rubble. Smouldering, but with no fire or heat. Just steam. It looked like someone had just…pushed it over. I staggered, devastated. My room, my one haven in this hell of a world was gone. Crushed. I walked forward, and slipped. My shin slid along the slick side of a supporting beam. I landed on all fours on a pile of bricks. I looked at my leg, and reeled back as a waft of sickly, metallic air floated into my face. My leg was covered in thick liquid, but it felt okay; it wasn’t my blood. I was pretty sure of this, because it was yellow.
I set out for school at my regular time of five past the bell. My walking rhythm settled, and I rubbed my eyes in a somewhat vain attempt to wake up. My mind went over the English essay I’d finished last night – I was under no pretence that it would score well. Even in such an interpretive subject as English, I could never convince the teacher that my point of view was valid. In fact, I’m not the academic type. I’m not the sporty type either. I’ll get back to you on what type I am once I work it out for myself.
So anyhow, I was walking along the pavement to school when I got to the end of my street. I hurried across the intersection, and turned the corner to school. Insert six hours of boredom, loneliness and arguments here. I shouldered my bag, now heavy with homework, and exited the classroom.
As I crossed the road, it struck me as odd that there was no traffic around. No cars, no buses, no pedestrians. What struck me as odder was the silence. The absolute quiet. My small black shoes made dull taps on the concrete path. The only other noise was a distant rushing, or crumbling noise. I walked faster, brushing past the sticky overgrown bushes and stepping over dog deposits, McDonalds wrappers and the general rubbish on the streets. The rushing sound was growing louder. My brisk walk became a slow jog. I reached my house. What was left of it, anyway.
My home was a pile of smouldering rubble. Smouldering, but with no fire or heat. Just steam. It looked like someone had just…pushed it over. I staggered, devastated. My room, my one haven in this hell of a world was gone. Crushed. I walked forward, and slipped. My shin slid along the slick side of a supporting beam. I landed on all fours on a pile of bricks. I looked at my leg, and reeled back as a waft of sickly, metallic air floated into my face. My leg was covered in thick liquid, but it felt okay; it wasn’t my blood. I was pretty sure of this, because it was yellow.
posted by nshady at
7:59 PM
6 Comments:
Blood.
By
nshady, at 7:09 PM
Woooah. Intriguing change of tense, nshady, what with it now centering on the thoughts and experiences of an older, yet unknown boy. And what is that yellow liquid? Concentrated urine? Probably not.
By
Anonymous, at 7:10 PM
Pus? Perhaps this older boy is the young boy from the beginning of the book. Or I could just be an idiot, what do i know?
By
Anonymous, at 7:23 PM
Weird. I replied to taraxanoid's post after I read it - yet it's done it first. Insert my first response between taraxanoid and whysmell.
From what I've seen on the forums, whysmell is not an idiot.
By
nshady, at 7:28 PM
Strangely enough when I read it I heard it mentally in your voice. Not just because I know you wrote it, but because the way things are said is how you would say it if you were telling a story out loud. I don't know if that makes any sense. But it gives a certain authenticity to it. And the almost dark humour looks like it will give the story an interesting tone throughout.
By
Anonymous, at 12:40 AM
Heheh. Cool.
By
nshady, at 6:23 PM
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