I stepped outside into the downpour. The torrent from the broken gutter slapped at my face. The crush from the skies wet my clothes and weighed me down. I slumped to my knees, with all the heavenly wrath blasting down towards me and pinning me to the surface of the earth. Cold chills of water ran down my back. Pools of water gathered in my shoes.
I can't win. Memories pelted me with each raindrop, pushing me to the ground. Drop. Failure. Drop. Regret. Drop. Third grade, my friend left me for Colorado. Fifth grade, I was caught cheating. Seventh grade, my family moved. Eighth grade, I had to acclimatize to a new classroom, only to leave it again for highschool. Ninth grade, I flunked three classes. Eleventh grade, I was nearly kicked out of school. Twelfth grade, I fought with my best friend. College . . .
All I could hear was the rushing of the blood in my ears, and suddenly I noticed I was up and running as fast as I could, past my lawn, across the street and down the road. I ran until my breath went ragged and I was limp and cold. I collapsed on the pavement and let the rain crush me into a fine powder. Drop. Defeat. Drop. Guilt. Drop.
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At least his failures started in third grade, not first. Well done.
ReplyDeleteThanks. I suppose that first grade would be worst . . . I dunno. I was just throwing that stuff in. It wasn't . . . potent enough? I didn't get it to the point where I wanted it. I liked the other one better. The first bit.
ReplyDeleteYeah, the grade thing was kind of... interesting... especially since a lot of them weren't really his fault, and he ended it in college. Still, I like the last paragraph in this one. Actually, I liked everything but the middle paragraph, which is apparently a good thing because people only tend to pay close attention at the beginning and the end, and the last five sentences (can you call them sentences?) were pretty good.
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