Featured Review on this writing by octonopo


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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is another flash fiction I made out of... sadness.

Submitted: July 19, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 19, 2017



The room was warm and foul, a rancid stench lingering in the air. A wrenching tension sat idle and unwavering in the atmosphere. His stomach churned in restless anxiety, stabbing into him like a hot knife. Sloppy wet tears silently flowed from his eyes, dripping onto the floor with a tiny plop. A gruesome brackish taste filled his mouth, overwhelming him with disgust. A cold sweat streamed from every pore on his body, his clothes matting to his damp skin. His mouth sat closed, no sound forming in the depths of his throat. His breathing was rapid and unsteady, mind dizzy and detached, heart pounding in his rib cage. His hands shook slightly.

He stared at the knife lying on the table, a million thoughts racing through his head. Why? Why should he do it? A distraction? Some sick revenge on those who thought it was all for attention? Was this for attention? He spiraled from one thought to the next, mind racing a mile a minute. Thoughts of his family, his friends, his school work, all pounded through his head, urging him to hold back, to not distract himself from the pain.

It'll get better.
Just breathe.
Remember everything you have.

It all flowed through his head in mockery of his disappointment. They didn't know. They didn't get it.

Really?! A B?! What kind of grade is that?!
Pfft. He was picked last, again!
Your good, but not good enough.

He could never meet the expectations. They grew higher and higher and he couldn't keep up. In reality, maybe they did not change. Maybe it was always the same. But maybe those expectations were too high.

Time flew by mind numbingly fast, every instance just a blur.

You could never do that.

He fingered the handle.

Pfft. Yeah right. Attention attention attention.

The blade gleamed alluringly in the beam of the flashlight.

Oh my god! Just shut up and play the game!

A fast and intense classical piece played through his earbuds.

Why’s that kid crying?

He lifted the blade in his hands.

Just… don't talk to him.

The next day he wore long sleeves.


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