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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
its 6:30am and i just wrote a short story and its not really good but its always nice to receive feedback. (i just skim-edited this sorry for any mistakes)

Submitted: May 09, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 09, 2014



The night-sky had greyed intensely after the sun descended behind the mountain peaks, the cold bite of the wind being winter’s last kiss before spring returned and the flowers would blossom the following morning. ‘It’ll be a cold one tonight,’ your mother had cautioned, her age shining through those apprehensive eyes as she handed you the parka, ‘so please be careful.’

You had exited the apartment complex with a childlike beam and a hopeful gaze – wandering around the dim-lit town of yours, through the foggy haze that seasonally appeared, had become a hobby of yours as you neared your ascension into adulthood.

Eighteen,’ your father had once said, ‘is when everything becomes real; when every moment of childhood should no longer matter.’

He was a fantastic man, your father, and his wise gaze on the world passed down through you. Which is why, at seventeen, you decided to embrace your final few months of adolescence through nightly walks with a childlike mind – the air was inhaled with the aim to create memories, not ruminate on them.

The sidewalks were scarce, save for drunken stragglers and overzealous businessman who were stalking for prostitutes. You observed nonchalantly as they passed you, caring more for the bitter wind than the secretive lives of other townsfolk. They were just another face in the crowd, much like you were to them; they did not deserve to consume your mind.

Watching as your breath rose like crispy smoke into the dead-night sky, you entertained the thought of children entering the employment world. Doctors, teachers, presidents – the very jobs they would ultimately succeed in once they aged. It terrified you slightly (greatly) knowing that one day your friends, whose immaturity climaxed with their pranks and boisterous laughs, and yourself might be the future leaders of your country. You would be the ones to boost morale during a war, you would be the ones at the front line with guns in your hands, and you would be the ones to alter laws. You would have all the power in your adulthood.

But, you humored chummily as you balled your fists into your parka’s pockets, you still remained a child; you had to milk your final moments of allowed childishness and relish in it.

It was just after this thought that the knife was jabbed into your back and a voice growled, ‘Give me all your fuckin' money, kid,’ in the darkness behind you.

Your body froze up, lower lip quivering as your mind raced through all the options—

(you have no money fuck no you’re going to die what did they always teach in self-defense oh fuck I’m going to die no fuck I have to run he’ll fucking kill me)

—and the sharp tip broke through skin, droplets of blood sliding down your back. Tears brimmed in your eyes and suddenly your decision of recapturing your youth through nightly walks was becoming a horrible idea as you smelt the rotten breath of your attacker.

You lurched away from the knife and headed forward, a resounding cry of, “Help me!” tearing from your throat as you sought for safety, for aid. There was a scurry of footsteps, a wet pain in your back and a helpless scream that reminded you, in the haze of it all, how small you truly were.

A white light flooded your vision and you had to shield your eyes with your arm, only to see the silhouette of two figures moving towards you. Despite the blinding light, you recognized the clear faces of your father and your best friend, Jamie. An almost impervious hope coursed through you as a wide smile spread onto your face; you were saved. Though clueless as to how you were found, you paid no mind to the facts as you shuffled hastily to your saviors when an abrupt sense of something being wrong exploded inside your stomach; the melancholic looks on your father and friend’s face as well as the unrelenting brightness of the light having flicked the trigger.

Jamie had died in a car collision in the summertime and your father had passed away when you were thirteen from a ruptured hernia. They stood, guiltily motioning towards the bright light that you had been so certain were the headlights of a police vehicle. They were not your saviors, they were your escorts.

You peered over your shoulder and noticed a bulky man sprinting off into the distance with your parka—

(your mother forced you to wear it to stay careful, and looked how well that turned out)

—while you – your body – laid in the middle of the sidewalk in a pool of your own blood. Your immobile, unresponsive body that would never grow up and age and reach the adulthood you had so worried about; your body that would rot in a coffin because of your decision to clinch to your childhood.

You would've vomited if you weren't dead.

Gentle (dead) hands guided you towards the light, soothingly massaging you as the whiteness overpowered you and you began to float away from your resting place where you were everlastingly youthful.

The flowers forgot to blossom that spring.

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