Continuation, I hope you enjoy it.
A Day In the Life of:
Occupation: High-schooler/Aspiring actress
Breath fogging out, stab wound on stomach hurts like a continuous punch to the gut, and god SHE'S AFTER ME. Lungs on fire, but must get away, gotta run and run until I can't hear her laughing like a goddamn hyena behind me. I barely know her; why is she doing this to me? Why is it me who fails at P.E. against this girl who runs track?
Oh doesn't matter, just grab that trash can, and pray it hinders this crazy bitch.
Crash, thud, she lets loose an inhuman growl. Bingo! Push those legs harder!
Needless to say, she's mad, in both senses of the word.
"GIMME BACK THE SNAKE!" What the hell is she screaming about? "MY ORANGE SNAKE, YOU THIEVING BITCH!"
"I DON'T HAVE IT!" I manage to yell back. Hey, maybe she'd actually see reason.
A little whooshing noise. Back of my neck tingling at how close the cause of the noise was. Did she try to stab me again? Oh yes, she did.
She plans to poke me to death with a twisted piece of my own glasses. Punched them right off my nose.
This girl, see reason? Wrong, wrong, wrong.
"Liar! LIAR! MR. TEAPOT GAVE IT TO YOU, DIDN'T HE?" That rage in her voice frightens me. Warm wind blasting my neck.
It's her breath propelled by the force of her cry.
Too. Fucking. Close!
How did she catch up so fast? Oh right, not only are we both running on adrenaline, she runs track.
If I survive this, I'm throwing out all the junk food in the house.
"GIVE IT BACK!" She screeches again.
She's farther, though. Yes! She may be more fit, but I'm far more desperate.
Pant, pant, I can see my breath in little cloud puffs. I hope to still be making them in the next hour. No, the next day, year, and decade. Please don't let it end thanks to this insane girl in my math class whose name I don't even know.
Even farther away. I'm going to—!
Sneakers. Untied. Falling, falling, and Crazy Girl's laughter is a death sentence.
Hands flailing to keep face from meeting pavement. OW!
Glass on the ground?
Beer bottle. Jagged and almost dagger-like.
Thank GOD for alcoholics!
Fumbling hands, grab it! She coming!
SHE'S SCREAMING IN MY EAR, then—the sick sound of slicing flesh, and my hand (MY hand!) yanks the heavy brown glass savior out of her stomach. Thud, down.
Gaping wound, open like a mouth. Red flowing free and something black coming from under her clawing hands that makes me feel ill.
Don't puke, RJ, don't puke.
She's still breathing in pained little gasps. Somehow, starting to smile. Starting to get up...
Whoosh, the sound repeats and she doesn't even get to scream.
Let the dripping thing drop and shatter. Stop looking at the gaping lips of the gashes.
What's this feeling welling up? Shame? Anger? Confusion? What?
None of those things. Breath slowing, heart no longer racing, the feeling spreading quick.
Relief. Complete, unadulterated relief.
I should call the police. She's dead, I should call them.
No. I'll listen to the need that screams louder, like I always have.
I'm going to go home and eat my entire hoard of chocolate.
LALALALALA...Review and have a good day. Thank you for reading!