WotW Story - "Tag"
Hey all,
This is my first time posting here. It'll also be my first time participating in NaNoWriMo. I decided to do the prompt a couple days ago. It's mostly drabble, but I'll post it here, just in case anyone wants to give me feedback~ Thanks! Also, a warning, there is a lot of profane language that may seem unrealistic. I'm sorry about that. >_>;
“Tag! You’re it!”
Accelerating footsteps against the hard cement, the wind rushing past their ears, making their hair go wild, their thoughts one-track: target, chase, tackle. Where I sit I can see everyone in the playground: I see Tommy Bundalow in his baggy red sweatshirt flying across the playground, his teeth bared, his eyes wild; I see Maggie Sawyer cowering in the box they call the “fish tank”, biting her nails frantically; I see Randy Arden screaming at the top of his lungs, trying (and failing) to get everyone’s attention; I see Mrs. Martin’s eyes in the window, watching as they play their silly game. I see a smile on her face. I see a smile on everyone’s face.
I can’t see my face at all. It’s blank, a barren canvas. And who will paint the pretty picture? None of the people here, that’s for sure.
Fourth grader I may be but I am not stupid; I know fun from idiocy. Staring at the stars is fun. Running around the playground as if your life depends on it is not. Why don’t they understand this? A bunch of losers they are, a bunch of no-lives.
Ms. Martin sometimes asks me why I don’t play with the other kids during recreation time. “Laura, you know, it’s good to make friends. They’re important.”
“I know that,” I say, offended. I have friends. She thinks I don’t, just like everybody else, but they don’t know what I know. Instead of arguing with her, I put on my sweetest smile, gesture to my dress, and say, “I don’t want to get dirty. Mother would have a fit.” Only partially true, but at this Ms. Martin nods as if she understands. As if she could.
The kids on the playground are all staring at the big clock above the school now. It’s almost noon, almost time for them to go inside. They might have time to play one more round. Ms. Martin has disappeared from the window, and now I’m the only bystander. I watch their game, green eyes squinted against the sun, and they glimpse something finally interesting.
Randy, the screamer, who seems fed up of everyone because they won't pay attention to him, grabs Tommy by the hood of his sweatshirt. “TAG,” he screams. His voice is hoarse; it almost sounds too old. “TAG, TAG, TAG, TA-”
And then nothing. Randy is cut off. With Tommy’s hood still in his grip he falls backward onto the pavement; I can feel the smack as his head hits the ground. Nobody cares. Tommy gets up, shakes himself off, and runs away, tagging someone else. The game continues, around the fallen boy. I purse my lips. I wouldn’t treat my friends like this, like trash so dirty that you can’t even pick it up to throw it out. I would help him up. If he wasn’t an idiot, I would ask him what was wrong, and I would help him, I would, Ms. Martin doesn’t think I have friends but I do, people just don’t see them, they don’t believe me when I tell them the friends are here they’re real and they love me and they would give anything for me and -
The bell rings. Students run inside. It’s a race to the door. I stand, brush myself off. Five paces to the right and I am over Randy’s body. He stares up at me. Or is he staring at me? I can’t tell. Black hair falls over my face and I stare at Randy, with his obnoxious red hair and big brown eyes. “You deserved that,” I say, malice in my tone. “Maybe the stars will be kind to you next time.” And then I kick him. Nothing happens. No blinks. No reactions. I notice a white substance flowing slowly out of his mouth, and almost gag. He’s drooling. “For God’s sake, get up, you worthless piece of shit!” The word sounds like sandpaper on my tongue. I shiver, then continue. “You’re made up of little pieces of bits of you and it’s all worth nothing, damn nothing, and no matter what you say, nothing will ever change this. Nothing will ever fucking change.” Foreign words out of my mouth, the swears surprise me. But at the same time, I’m exhilarated. I feel alive. For the first time in ages, I’m alive.
“Did you hear me, Randy Arden? In layman’s terms, fuck you. You think you can pull down those who are lower than you? You think you can make fun of people who aren’t like you? You need a life, no-life. Give the memo to the rest of your no-life friends too. Think before you act, and maybe, just maybe God will feel sorry for you. I know I never will. You disgust me. All of you.”
He stares up at me. The drool continues. I scoff, disgusted. And then… his body spasms. His head rocks against the pavement - one, two three times - and his feet kick at nothing and his arms splay about and he grabs onto my leg, he pulls me downward and I scream I scream I don’t know what’s happening and he’s scaring me and he’s pulling me to his face and his eyes aren’t real, they’re not there, only sockets, bloody remnants of what used to be big brown eyes.
And he says to me, he says, “It’s not real.”
And then his eyes close. He stops. I scream. And scream. And scream. And then Ms. Martin is behind me, she’s got me by the waist and she’s dragging me away from the scene and I yell at her, and I kick, because I need to know what he meant, I need to know why he would say something like that and finally I turn around and I run to the spot where Randy is.
Except he's not there.
I turn around. “What’s going on?!” Ms. Martin demands.
“Randy Arden… He was sick. He fell on his head, then started kicking… I tried to help him up, I did Ms. Arden, but he dragged me down with him. Scrapes on my arm, see them? Where the heck did he go so fast?”
“Laura… Who’s Randy Arden?”
“He’s a kid in our class, Ms. Martin. You know him. He’s a smart-aleck. Red hair, taller than most of the kids, loud, a permanent smirk on his face and then he had these -”
(big brown eyes)
“There’s no Randy Arden in our class, Laura. There never has been.”
By now the kids are outside, crowding around us. Most of them look frightened. “LOOK,” I scream. “BLOOD. ON THE GROUND. WHOSE IS THAT?”
“Scrapes, Laura. You just pointed out the scrapes on your arm.”
“No… no, no, no, no. Tommy. You were there. He pulled you down. That’s how he got onto the ground, he was it, he tagged - DON’T SHAKE YOUR HEAD AT ME.”
Ms. Martin steps forward. “Go inside, Laura. Take a rest. I’ll call the school nurse, and she’ll be here soon to take you home. It’s a hot day, heat stroke is common, maybe you were just tired. You imagined it, Laura. It was all in your head.”
She ushers me inside. I close my mouth. I follow complacently. Sit in my desk. Wait to be taken home. Lay in bed at home. Stare at the ceiling. Wonder. Think. Wonder. Think.
(it’s not real)
What isn’t? Randy, or me?
This is my first time posting here. It'll also be my first time participating in NaNoWriMo. I decided to do the prompt a couple days ago. It's mostly drabble, but I'll post it here, just in case anyone wants to give me feedback~ Thanks! Also, a warning, there is a lot of profane language that may seem unrealistic. I'm sorry about that. >_>;
“Tag! You’re it!”
Accelerating footsteps against the hard cement, the wind rushing past their ears, making their hair go wild, their thoughts one-track: target, chase, tackle. Where I sit I can see everyone in the playground: I see Tommy Bundalow in his baggy red sweatshirt flying across the playground, his teeth bared, his eyes wild; I see Maggie Sawyer cowering in the box they call the “fish tank”, biting her nails frantically; I see Randy Arden screaming at the top of his lungs, trying (and failing) to get everyone’s attention; I see Mrs. Martin’s eyes in the window, watching as they play their silly game. I see a smile on her face. I see a smile on everyone’s face.
I can’t see my face at all. It’s blank, a barren canvas. And who will paint the pretty picture? None of the people here, that’s for sure.
Fourth grader I may be but I am not stupid; I know fun from idiocy. Staring at the stars is fun. Running around the playground as if your life depends on it is not. Why don’t they understand this? A bunch of losers they are, a bunch of no-lives.
Ms. Martin sometimes asks me why I don’t play with the other kids during recreation time. “Laura, you know, it’s good to make friends. They’re important.”
“I know that,” I say, offended. I have friends. She thinks I don’t, just like everybody else, but they don’t know what I know. Instead of arguing with her, I put on my sweetest smile, gesture to my dress, and say, “I don’t want to get dirty. Mother would have a fit.” Only partially true, but at this Ms. Martin nods as if she understands. As if she could.
The kids on the playground are all staring at the big clock above the school now. It’s almost noon, almost time for them to go inside. They might have time to play one more round. Ms. Martin has disappeared from the window, and now I’m the only bystander. I watch their game, green eyes squinted against the sun, and they glimpse something finally interesting.
Randy, the screamer, who seems fed up of everyone because they won't pay attention to him, grabs Tommy by the hood of his sweatshirt. “TAG,” he screams. His voice is hoarse; it almost sounds too old. “TAG, TAG, TAG, TA-”
And then nothing. Randy is cut off. With Tommy’s hood still in his grip he falls backward onto the pavement; I can feel the smack as his head hits the ground. Nobody cares. Tommy gets up, shakes himself off, and runs away, tagging someone else. The game continues, around the fallen boy. I purse my lips. I wouldn’t treat my friends like this, like trash so dirty that you can’t even pick it up to throw it out. I would help him up. If he wasn’t an idiot, I would ask him what was wrong, and I would help him, I would, Ms. Martin doesn’t think I have friends but I do, people just don’t see them, they don’t believe me when I tell them the friends are here they’re real and they love me and they would give anything for me and -
The bell rings. Students run inside. It’s a race to the door. I stand, brush myself off. Five paces to the right and I am over Randy’s body. He stares up at me. Or is he staring at me? I can’t tell. Black hair falls over my face and I stare at Randy, with his obnoxious red hair and big brown eyes. “You deserved that,” I say, malice in my tone. “Maybe the stars will be kind to you next time.” And then I kick him. Nothing happens. No blinks. No reactions. I notice a white substance flowing slowly out of his mouth, and almost gag. He’s drooling. “For God’s sake, get up, you worthless piece of shit!” The word sounds like sandpaper on my tongue. I shiver, then continue. “You’re made up of little pieces of bits of you and it’s all worth nothing, damn nothing, and no matter what you say, nothing will ever change this. Nothing will ever fucking change.” Foreign words out of my mouth, the swears surprise me. But at the same time, I’m exhilarated. I feel alive. For the first time in ages, I’m alive.
“Did you hear me, Randy Arden? In layman’s terms, fuck you. You think you can pull down those who are lower than you? You think you can make fun of people who aren’t like you? You need a life, no-life. Give the memo to the rest of your no-life friends too. Think before you act, and maybe, just maybe God will feel sorry for you. I know I never will. You disgust me. All of you.”
He stares up at me. The drool continues. I scoff, disgusted. And then… his body spasms. His head rocks against the pavement - one, two three times - and his feet kick at nothing and his arms splay about and he grabs onto my leg, he pulls me downward and I scream I scream I don’t know what’s happening and he’s scaring me and he’s pulling me to his face and his eyes aren’t real, they’re not there, only sockets, bloody remnants of what used to be big brown eyes.
And he says to me, he says, “It’s not real.”
And then his eyes close. He stops. I scream. And scream. And scream. And then Ms. Martin is behind me, she’s got me by the waist and she’s dragging me away from the scene and I yell at her, and I kick, because I need to know what he meant, I need to know why he would say something like that and finally I turn around and I run to the spot where Randy is.
Except he's not there.
I turn around. “What’s going on?!” Ms. Martin demands.
“Randy Arden… He was sick. He fell on his head, then started kicking… I tried to help him up, I did Ms. Arden, but he dragged me down with him. Scrapes on my arm, see them? Where the heck did he go so fast?”
“Laura… Who’s Randy Arden?”
“He’s a kid in our class, Ms. Martin. You know him. He’s a smart-aleck. Red hair, taller than most of the kids, loud, a permanent smirk on his face and then he had these -”
(big brown eyes)
“There’s no Randy Arden in our class, Laura. There never has been.”
By now the kids are outside, crowding around us. Most of them look frightened. “LOOK,” I scream. “BLOOD. ON THE GROUND. WHOSE IS THAT?”
“Scrapes, Laura. You just pointed out the scrapes on your arm.”
“No… no, no, no, no. Tommy. You were there. He pulled you down. That’s how he got onto the ground, he was it, he tagged - DON’T SHAKE YOUR HEAD AT ME.”
Ms. Martin steps forward. “Go inside, Laura. Take a rest. I’ll call the school nurse, and she’ll be here soon to take you home. It’s a hot day, heat stroke is common, maybe you were just tired. You imagined it, Laura. It was all in your head.”
She ushers me inside. I close my mouth. I follow complacently. Sit in my desk. Wait to be taken home. Lay in bed at home. Stare at the ceiling. Wonder. Think. Wonder. Think.
(it’s not real)
What isn’t? Randy, or me?