A/N: An actual account of my walk home from school. It’s directed more towards a teacher that I really want to talk to but is too busy. I thought I would write this to express my feelings and the stress I’m having right now instead of taking up his time. I really would appreciate reviews; I don’t get many and it discourages me a bit from writing. Thanks for reading.
To Trudge

I suppose I’m quite like a block of wood. One dented and chipped, kicked and nailed block of wood abandoned on the bottom stairwell of the school. But staring hopelessly at the wall wouldn’t make a hole I could climb in and hide away for the next three years so I plucked up my courage and my backpack and climbed the steps to the double doors. It wasn’t hot outside but with my black shirt and twenty pound bag I’d be surprised if I made it home without fainting. I had about a mile and a half to walk but it’s my own fault for deciding to walk home just because I didn’t want to speak to my father. One lovely, depressing Monday afternoon it was.

A journey I was on, trudging the winding route back to my house hoping to decipher what it was that I wanted. I walked past all the cars and glanced at the suited up football players as I passed the field feeling their pain with the heat. I went on in a slow deliberate step not wanting to reach home (whatever a home is) at any time during that day. I knew that if I didn’t leave my dad would be upset with me and not let me get a word in edgewise. As always, ignored and passed over but still disciplined as if he had the right. Suddenly, after thirteen years of pathetic parenting he decides he’ll be the father even if I do most of the work. Sure, my brother gets the father, gets the love and material possessions but I’m stuck in my room only acknowledged when needed. And the previous night was the last straw.

The bus garage was nearing and there were a few busses returning from dropping students off but I passed them by. I stopped when I saw a lonely block of wood sitting by the curb of the street. It looked fairly new or at least new enough that it hadn’t been used; few scratches or chips, so I did the most sensible thing: I kicked it. It bounced a few feet so, like a child fascinated with hitting a rock, I kicked it again and continued on my making sure the wood stayed in front of me. It kept me entertained until I reached 193 hits and finally just swung my foot back and nailed it as hard as I could. It flew away from me quite a bit before landing on the concrete with a loud crack and rolling forward a bit. So I kept walking and when I reached it again I repeated my previous action and once again it flew in a small arc coming down hard except this time, instead of rolling forward, a large chunk snapped off. A little disappointed at first I continued my slow walk and, unrelenting, kicked the larger piece forward again and walked along with it. A block of wood and me, best friends being kicked down the road.

By this time I had already made three turns but still had little progress returning to my street. Thankfully. And so as I sustained my weary trudge, I began to think again. About how just after this year I could be free of my controlling father, but it saddened me to think of my brother in his clutches. Zack would always get what he wanted and that was what I was afraid of; it was clear to me that he was favored by both of my parents, and I feared they would convince him to not leave home after his senior year. I had options: I could move to the east with either of my two aunts and start a new life or I could stay optimistic and hope for the best in my current situation. I love my brother to death even if he does get all of my parents’ attention and even if he was older I was still worried about him.

I stopped again when I noticed a large gathering of flies near the road. A small bird lay dead; guts emptied out onto the scalding black street. I stood over it for a little while examining the way the maggots and flies feasted upon its innards wondering if I would be so lucky as to contribute to the earth when I died. And now getting stuck on the subject of death I reflected back to the time three years ago when I would have been more than happy to be hit by a car as I assumed this little bird had been. I glanced at my wrist and reflexively rubbed the horizontal scars that adorned it as I did so often while in deep thought. I looked once more back to the small bird, turned my head, and kicked that piece of wood.

Plodding along once more I tried to keep my mind off the things that kept me awake at night and focused more on the soft clunk of the wood each time my foot connected with it. I kept my eyes on the ground and just walked and walked. When I finally looked up a small boy was passing me; he carried a backpack and binder just like me and I wondered idly if maybe he wasn’t all that happy either. And again, my mind got worked up trying to work out what exactly being happy was defined as. He was soon gone and out of my mind so I went back to staring steadily at the ground until I reached the busy road that led downwards towards Woodson Village and Sterling where I would turn off and wind my way up to my house. There were no cars going right so I kicked that piece of wood until I reached the middle of the street and waited for the cars to pass and my opportunity to get on the sidewalk. When an opening finally appeared and I continued kicking my foot got caught on the wood and I had to stop for a moment. I glanced to my right to the oncoming cars and the dead bird flashed through my mind and I thought about how nice it would be if all my worries were suddenly just gone in an instant with the sharp impact of metal on flesh. Oh how nice it would be if, for once, I could be that roadkill that everyone ‘aww’d’ over when they saw it on the side of the street. If, for once, people gave me a passing glace and actually cared that, even if it was gone, I still had a life.

The thought was gone as soon as it had come and I went on with my best wooden friend. I must admit I was moving very slowly because by this time I was probably only a third of the way home; I still had the long sloping sidewalk and the twisting Sterling Street at Woodson Hills. Every moment I thought of the past it seemed as if my backpack got heavier and forced my already bad back to even greater pains so I continued my trudging with the thud and skid of the wood block beneath my feet. At the time I decided that this wooden block would symbolize the definition of trudging to me so I shifted my shoulders and soldiered on.

After a while I began to observe my surroundings and noticed how extremely filthy humans had gotten to be. Cigarettes and trash littered the overgrown sidewalk I walked upon and I looked to the fallen yard sale sign that served no purpose anymore. When I was approaching another intersection a horrible smell assaulted my nose and I looked down once more to find yet another dead animal left to rot on the side of the road. This one was a skunk and it was smashed and turned in strange directions with a snapped jaw oozing out the ants feast. I stopped once again to think about death rubbing my wrist again. It’s strange how I can remember so little of my past but I can distinctly remember the blood flowing from my arm that year. As much as I tell myself to get over what has happened (even if I can’t recall it) I’ve yet to let what little memories I have go. I can still remember sitting at the kitchen table with my brother with a plastic bag full of clothes for the weekend waiting and waiting. Waiting for my mom to pick me up and take me to all the places she promised until the phone rang and I knew that it was time to refold all of my shirts and shorts. After a while I never packed and after those three years in Kansas I learned not to trust a single soul.

I was almost home now; I had just turned up Sterling and begun the winding ascent up the street kicking that poor block of wood with me. I had blocked most of the stinging thoughts from my mind and instead just tried to stare at the ground. When I finally reached the top of the hill and only had a block and a half to go I heard the roaring hum of my brother’s car. It was almost as annoying as having him stop beside me and speak.

“How long have you been kicking that block of wood?”

“Since the bus garage.”

“Right…so do you want a ride for the next block?” I finally looked up and noticed our next door neighbor, Rick, sitting in the passenger seat.

“No thanks, I might as well finish what I started.” I was hoping he would keep going on towards the house so I could walk quietly with my block of wood but obviously he didn’t take the hint. I looked forward and almost broke into a grin when I saw that my father was leaving the house; I really didn’t want to deal with him at the moment. Of course, he drove up to me and stopped asking some stupid, repetitive question and I realized that he had no idea I was angry with him. That inflamed me even more; knowing that he was probably too drunk the previous night to remember our fight. Well, I wasn’t about to bring it back up so I walked on. I finally reached my driveway and made yet another stop. I stooped and picked up my block of wood. It wasn’t the clean cut piece I had found a half an hour ago.

I suppose I’m quite like a block of wood; every one is. When kicked and mistreated too much we get chips and dents and parts of ourselves broken off. They can always be smoothed and sanded over but we will never be the same whole piece we once were; we will always have the remembrance of something past that will never return. I don’t think I will ever kick another piece of wood down the street when I need something to amuse myself. I will simply trudge on myself and not put my burden down until I end up like that roadkill.