(no subject)
This is a story i wrote Thursday evening for English. She wanted us to write a survival story. the example she gave was something like "you go to war, come back. everything has changed, how do you cope?"
I.....put my own spin on things. Oh yes, and i'm considering dying my hair Sonic Green this summer. Been thinking of it since last year.
Bullet Shells. Casings clatter all around me as I press my palms to my ears. Bullet shells rain down upon me as the man I once knew as my partner unjustly deals death to those innocent people. With my eyes squeezed shut and my knees pulled in tight, it's the best I can do to push the image of them out of my mind. The maniac with the gun standing above me was once considered a friend. Then he snapped. It was supposed to be a routine job. In. Out. Done. Then he went crazy for some reason. He didn't need to shoot. He didn't need to. Now he's standing there, finger clutching the trigger, that maniacal grin creeping across his features. I can see it even with my eyes closed. Suddenly--sirens.
That was ten months and three weeks ago this Tuesday. I got out of prison about a week ago. The police knew I didn't have anything to do with that bloodbath. When they busted in, they saw me crouched in a corner and that madman I once knew as my partner still gripping the trigger. He had been a neighbor and close friend through childhood. Whenever we had a job to do, I told my parents the two of us were going to a seminar at the local college. I still can't face them. I never told them, or anyone close, about my other job. When I saw them for the first time in almost a year, my own mother refused to so much as look at me. The ones I always regarded as friends are ashamed to know me now.
At least in the prison it had been seclusion by choice. Out here, it's isolation without any chance of return. No one will ever forgive me for not stopping my deranged partner. I can't even forgive myself. I should have done something. Anything.
These things race through my head every minute of every day. The government may say I'm a free man but I know I will always be held prisoner by my past. The best I can do is survive it one day at a time.
I.....put my own spin on things. Oh yes, and i'm considering dying my hair Sonic Green this summer. Been thinking of it since last year.
Bullet Shells. Casings clatter all around me as I press my palms to my ears. Bullet shells rain down upon me as the man I once knew as my partner unjustly deals death to those innocent people. With my eyes squeezed shut and my knees pulled in tight, it's the best I can do to push the image of them out of my mind. The maniac with the gun standing above me was once considered a friend. Then he snapped. It was supposed to be a routine job. In. Out. Done. Then he went crazy for some reason. He didn't need to shoot. He didn't need to. Now he's standing there, finger clutching the trigger, that maniacal grin creeping across his features. I can see it even with my eyes closed. Suddenly--sirens.
That was ten months and three weeks ago this Tuesday. I got out of prison about a week ago. The police knew I didn't have anything to do with that bloodbath. When they busted in, they saw me crouched in a corner and that madman I once knew as my partner still gripping the trigger. He had been a neighbor and close friend through childhood. Whenever we had a job to do, I told my parents the two of us were going to a seminar at the local college. I still can't face them. I never told them, or anyone close, about my other job. When I saw them for the first time in almost a year, my own mother refused to so much as look at me. The ones I always regarded as friends are ashamed to know me now.
At least in the prison it had been seclusion by choice. Out here, it's isolation without any chance of return. No one will ever forgive me for not stopping my deranged partner. I can't even forgive myself. I should have done something. Anything.
These things race through my head every minute of every day. The government may say I'm a free man but I know I will always be held prisoner by my past. The best I can do is survive it one day at a time.