Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-7064562-20170706155016

This is an eight chapter story I wrote on a 2 day Vk because I wanted to get it out of my head. The story itself did an 180 on me and turned into something I most likely won't proceed with while making my other stories. However, I would love if some people could help me with typical errors, dialog tags, and all that jazz, as it can help me in future work, as I'm currently working on a profile but have always had issues with grammar.

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As my teacher stands in front of the class like a king, holding his stomach and spamming math problems through clenched teeth, my fellow classmates pay no mind to the sweat retaining from under the pits of his button-upped, obviously Wal-mart brand, dress shirt. Clearly, he’s in distress, but you’ll only call out if he brings it up, won’t you? Amazing. I’m sure that’s when you will pretend to care! Just like every other human, all you care about is yourselves, yet somehow, you all have the nerve to put on that bootlegged mask every day.

Converse, fake your empathy, pretend to be sincere, it won’t change the fact you’re nothing more than lambs. You don’t care about your friends dying grandmother on social media, but you'll show sympathy in the comments anyway. Attending your friend’s party this Friday? No need to hide it, just like everyone else there, you’re just looking to escalate your own social standing. All of you have no problem showcasing your soft bleached wool in the daytime, but when the opportunity arises, you can’t help but show off your pearly jagged fangs. You’re no saint for caring about a sick child, you’re no god for giving a homeless man a dollar, but your narcissistic minds can’t help but put you above the average college student working at a fast-food joint. I hate to break it to you, but you’re not wolves. No, that spot on the food chain belongs to me. As I squint my eyes and exam my produce cluster to the door before the lunch bell even rings, I can't help but think of your sad linear futures.

Screaming over the bustling cattle that’s ready to head off to the grazing field, my teacher is interrupted by the sound of a million swarming bees buzzing through the loudspeaker, declaring sixth period. It’s time for my favorite class, lunch. Sitting at a lunch table, enjoying my perfectly crafted sandwich as I observe my fellow classmates act idiotic, is my favorite school activity! People watching, a considerable way to understand the behavior of others. The nervous loners, the social rejects playing trading card games, and the jocks flexing for the cheerleaders, all golden entertainment as I sit in the back of the lunch room sipping on a generic carton of chocolate milk.

As I toss my brown lunch bag on my desk and sling my backpack over my shoulder, an abrupt shove sends me to the ground and breaks me from my arrogant inner thoughts.

“Louie! Where do you think you’re off to?” Booms the voice of a plump, greasy delinquent. With his shirt not fully covering his belly, and his puffed out cheeks, he might appear to just be an average overweight American child, but Trevor, like me, is a senior in high school, and somehow the leading star of our football team. The boy might not be able to run, but at over six feet and coming in a grand total of three hundred and some pounds, this all-star wouldn’t have a problem taking a truck head on. Now if only I had a driver's license to test that theory...

“Off to lunch Trevor, you should be too, but honestly I think you'd be better off skipping a meal or two.” The words of a cliched smart ass, with the execution of a stuttering second-grade girl being pushed into the boy's locker room. I wasn’t able to even crack a laugh for the onlooking students as they witness this week's hallway gossip topic.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Oh, really? Actually, I’m starving! I think I might need more than one lunch today.” He said in a squeaky, yet corresponding voice as he grabbed my brown lunch bag off the table. Not even bothering to open the bag, he rips the fragile paper sending carrot sticks and grapes rolling onto the classroom floor. With a plop, my goddess on wheat also falls to the floor, and before I can hold her in my arms, she’s snatched away from me and locked into the chamber of Trevor’s mouth.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">Stealing food from the hungry is a pitiful crime, and with every crime, there’s a price to be paid. As my fake tears stop flowing and my pleads halt, I can’t help but smirk as Trevor's eyes began to pop out of their sockets and water like a faucet. Spitting out chunks of ham and cheese, he begins to gasp for air and beg for a glass of liquid refreshment.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“W..hat..was in that?” He spits through dried lips. One of his lackeys, a short guy with dirty brown hair and an overly long T-shirt starts patting him on the back trying to help his acute breathing problems.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Ghost peppers! I do love spicy food, don’t you?” With an over the top haughty laugh, I sit cross-legged on the floor and begin picking up escape carrots from under my desk. “That’s not all, you know? You do this every Friday and it’s gotten relatively predictable. I’ve been messing with the sandwiches for months now! I’ve been adding my own special mayonnaise and everything, but this week I felt like switching things up!” With that his false hurls became real, spreading a stream of orange acid onto a poor student's textbook as the room erupts into laughter. That’s right, this is what you want, isn’t it? As you look upon us, a bully and his victim, you get a boost to your egotistical minds, don’t you? As long as the stage is set and the production goes along smoothly, you’ll be content with whatever outcome commences. All you care about is that feeling of superiority, and that’s fine by me. On the outside, you’re free to support my attempts to fight back, show me compassion and understanding, but on the inside I know you’re just glad it’s not you. Make yourself feel like a better person by talking trash behind his back, but we both know as soon as he invites you to his party this weekend you’re his best friend again. You’re all just out for yourselves, and, I can’t say I resent any of you for that. If I was in your shoes I’d be enjoying the show as well, whether it ended in the victim being punched in the face, or overcoming this aggressor through sheer wit and luck. Unfortunately for me, this situation ends in the victim getting an uppercut and the loss of three recaptured orange sticks. Falling onto my back, I quickly prepared my hands in front of my face as some sort of feeble protection.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">It’s more useless than a made at home plastic wrap condom, providing zero actual protection from the onslaught of my hormone-induced, angsty actions. As each strike bashes my skull into the ground, my eyes began to blur from the pain, making it difficult to see my surroundings. Through one blurry eye, I’m able to witness the flash of cameras and the soft red glow of recording lights. Instead of helping me, you’re recording it? For future use and evidence, right? Ha, who am I kidding, it’s for your own personal entertainment! We both know that recording will end up straight on social media instead of the principal’s lap, flooded with pity comments and “If I was there” arguments. You’re all so pathetic.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">As Trevor’s blows began to grind up damage, I can feel a warm flow of liquid began to run down the side of my face. I flail like a dying fish and finally manage to land a few hits on the tub of lard, allowing me to escape from underneath. Standing face to face with the future ex-husband of some cheap prostitute, I prepare my hands in a karate stance I saw on T.V once. I just hope it looks more intimidating than nerdy.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Enough Trevor.” demands the voice of an agitated female. Through my clearing vision, I can make out her hitting Trevor on the side of the head with a glittery purple bag. I think it’s made of cheap plastic, similar to her earrings.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Fuck off Amy, he talked shit, so he gets hit! It’s the law of the playground!” Traver claims, rubbing the side of his head from the annoyance.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“I understand you like to spend your free time at children's playgrounds, but don’t adapt to their culture please. We’re seniors, we have ten days of school left, this is the time to be getting on top of your college applications and essays, not guys.” With snickers and childish jeers from the thinning bystanders, the baby elephant's eyes began to dart left and right, noticing his emplaced fear has begun to evaporate. Amazing how a few immature insults can have such an impact on high schoolers.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Wow, having a girl save you? Manly as hell man.” His voice, while still having the intimidating effect of a pro wrestling heel, begins to crack with nervous ripples. With one last curse and a cliche one liner taken out of a “How To Bully” textbook from the 60’s, he pushes his way past a few scrawny kids and exits the room. It takes his lackey a couple of seconds to realize this engagement is over and speed out of the room to catch up to the behemoth, that’s most likely stopped and breathing heavily on the staircase.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">As my mouth opens to make an attempt at a witty retort, Amy places a finger up to my lip to huss my poorly formed sarcastic remark.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“You never learn, do you?” she giggles, taking out a handkerchief and handing it to me. Like a popular hostess, she has a gentle, yet oblivious way of speaking that makes every word sound flirtatious.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Where’s Mr.Surewood?” I ask, trying to hold back a delighted grin as I take the handkerchief from her hand and began to clean the dirt and drying blood from my brow. He’s a New York state educator so I can’t say I really expect him to put much effort in controlling his students, but some help would have been nice when I was getting my ass kicked.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“He left the room after yelling about some assignment due Monday. He was holding his stomach and ran towards the bathroom. He seemed in pain during his whole lecture today, guess he was sick or something.”

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Ah, that was my fault. I didn’t do the homework last week and he chewed me out, so I gave him something to chew in his lunch today, that may or may not have been related to something in the laxative family.” Mr. Surewood always ate his lunch before our class, so thanks to some fast acting laxatives I bought online, I got a nice show to enjoy. It might seem a little harsh, but on the bright side, I’m sure the brownie I made him were by far more delectable than anything his wife could bake. I’m a great cook!

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Well, I guess karma caught up with you then?” she says with a straight, almost irritated face as she takes back the handkerchief and shoves it in her pants pocket. Lucky handkerchief. “See you later Louie, I’m starving.” I save the obvious sexual joke and just wave her out of the room as she joins a group of fruit colored girls.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">Unlike Amy who has the natural soft skin of a newborn baby and brown locks smoother than peanut butter, her friends have a more, cosmetic touch. With long fake nails, skittle colored lips, and overly dyed hair, Amy’s simplistic, yet beautiful appearance really makes her stick out. Out of everyone here, she's one of the few I can tolerate. My pessimistic way of thinking just doesn’t apply to her. She’s not naive, self-absorbed, or selfish. She’s been that way ever since first grade. I can’t say we’re close, but whenever she's near me, and I smell that lavender perfume she always sprays, I can’t help but think of her as the only women in the world I’d ever give my heart to. Watching her all these years from a distance, learning her quirks and vices, and enjoying the small chit chats with her every now and again, have truly been some of the highlights of my childhood years. These simplistic things that lack depth for most, truly have infected my heart with an inflamed amount of passion. Throughout these years, I’ve seen her grow from the girl I had a crush on in elementary school, to the women I love today. I truly do thank her father for his genetics in all of this, as there’s no way she inherited that bust size from her mother. Not that it matters of course, but as an eighteen-year-old male, it’s a nice plus! I swear, one day, I’ll make her my queen.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“I swear it, Gordon, she will be my queen!” I exclaim in a voice louder than my normal tone, but still hushed enough so the porked faced girl sitting a table away can’t hear it.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">Unfortunately, I can still hear her disgusting smacks as she devours her overly sized unhealthy mush. With her ginger hair wrapped in a side ponytail and her belt hidden under rolls of fat, I bet she’s the prized pig for guys with no date for prom.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Doubt it,” Gordon states in a monotone voice as he takes small bites from his bland sandwich. With each bite his glasses begin to slip from his face, forcing him to stop every few bites to nudge them back into a comfortable position. “Look, LuLu, you have the shining blond strands of a golden retriever, the emerald eyes of royalty, and the mind of a philosopher on crack, but even if I was gay I wouldn’t date you, do you know why?” Scratching the back of his home cut military hairdo, he gives me the downcasted blank stare a boss gives to his underpaid workers who use the company mop inappropriately.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Because I’m too good for you?” I say, trying to keep a serious face. Placing my tray on the table and finally taking a seat, I throw one of the four highly nutritious chicken nuggets into my mouth. Four chicken nuggets, a spoon full of rice, an apple, and a small carton of milk sure does fill the stomachs of any hungry eighteen year old. Though to be fair, seeing how Gordon only has one sandwich, I shouldn’t be complaining about being able to afford a four dollar school lunchable.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“That’s true, but I was thinking more because you’re personality is the egotistical equivalent of a movie star that hasn’t had a hit in twenty years. On top of that, I heard about what you did to Mr.Surewood and Trevor. While I find it hilarious, most girls, let alone Amy, don’t.” Taking the final bite of his sandwich he claps his hands like a construction worker and pulls out a blue binder from the rugged pack to his left. Throwing another nugget into my mouth, I stare down at my tray in understandment.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“I always win in the end Gordon, you should know that by now.” My voice is now far less enthusiastic than when I first got to the table.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Yes, and rich girls like her don’t find that attractive. They like grown men who can buy them things and hold their bags without worry of who else you are sugar daddying. I bet she’s already purchased several leashes from the pet store to hold whatever thirty-seven-year-old man she can get ahold of after high school.” Even with the joke, his voice still kept his normal monotone pace. Gordon’s one of the only people who can tolerate me. I’m aware my sarcasm and communism can repel not just female fun time, but regular friends as well, but with him, I never have to worry. Everything’s on the table with us and even though he’s overly serious, he cracks and unwilling smile every now and again. Lately,  he’s started to seem a little distance, but I’m chalking it up to regents being around the corner and family issues.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“If I went by what you consider rich, I wouldn’t be able to hit on any girl whose family income is over twenty thousand a year.” Like I said, everything is on the table. Even the fact that Gordon is so poor the main source of heating in his house is from his mom's chronic smoking habit.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">With a wink, I push my half empty tray to Gordon and lift myself from the table. Sighing, he closes his binder and pulls the tray closer to him. Shoveling rice into his mouth, he gives me a half-hearted thumbs up. Clearly, he’s still not on board with the idea, but that’s good enough for me. Friends are always there to give half-assed support for one another.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">Gordon and I sit in the back of the cafeteria. In most schools, the back area is normally reserved for the geeks, nerds, druggies, and other juvenile delinquents who will either end up in their mother's basement or prison after school, but we only have a few of them, so we get to sit back here. Amy, on the other hand, follows the cliche trope of the popular girl sitting at the front table. So to get to my beloved princess, I must journey through this barbecue sauce and hormone filled war zone.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">After a very anti-climactic stroll through the white checkered cafeteria, I stop a few feet before her table and hide behind a bricked pillar. Not to observe her, not to chicken out, but to simply get my bearings. With my mask of confidence, I failed to notice my impartial breathing and my forehead precipitating more sweat than a four hundred pound man running a 10k. I’m starting to panic. I try to keep a cool head, I try to bite my lip and think radically, but it’s not happening. She's going to reject me. I’ve had a crush on her for years, am I actually going to gamble my feelings for a chance to expand them? Sure, the worst thing she can say is no, and on the off chance she agrees to go out with me, I’ll be the happiest son of a bitch on the planet, but if she says no, what happens then? Am I allowed to still like her? I’m sure if I approach her and put her in such an awkward position, after the rejection she’ll never talk to me again. However, If I don’t say anything, school will end, and we’ll both be on different life paths and never talk again anyway. So, doesn’t that mean I have nothing to lose but my dignity? Do I even have any to begin with? Still, maybe we could still chat on the phone and after awhile…

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">I stop thinking and take a few large strides to her table. There conversation halts as soon as some pink haired girl, who most likely works at a coffee shop and is going to major in art history, notices me and sends off a hateful repellent alerting all the other girls of my presence. I swear, every vein in her forehead popped as soon as I was undoubtedly making my way towards their table. After examining her sour facial expression, all six of them turned in confusion to the unfamiliar male approaching their table, similar to dogs perking their ears to the sound of knocking at the front door. Amy was the last one to notice, whether it’s because she's used to their overly judgmental actions, or simply because she doesn’t care what they're getting so worked up over, I do not know.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">After a few seconds of observing the situation, and undoubtedly noticing my pit stains beginning to form, she jumps as if some unknown force tabbed her on the shoulder.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Oh, Louie! Sorry, that took me a second to process, what’s up?” Did I interrupt on some highly confidential girl meeting or something? What’s with her delayed reaction?

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Can I talk to you for a second, alone?” Somehow I’m able to grind out my sentence through clenched teeth. Just stay calm Louis, you can do this. Isolate the target and go in for the kill. Worst casinerio she says no and skips back to her table to tell her gal-pals how she just lost her one chance with the best thing that could ever happen to her. If such a scenario takes place, I can just deny the situation and wait out the last few days of school spearing rumors about her sleeping around at prom. I can do this.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">She looks like a deer which just met the shine of a drunk motorist’s headlights. She begins stuttering a sure but is swiftly cut off by a pink haired companion, sporting thick-framed glasses and a ripped T-shirt that sports the name of some rock band I, and likely anyone who's not a beatnik, have never heard of.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“She’s not going anywhere with you! If you have something to say, you can say it to all of us.” the hipster spouts with an annoyed tone as if I’ve somehow offended her. Clearly, she's jealous no hot stud is asking for a moment of her time.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">Talking to her alone would make this a million times easier, but my composure is starting to falter. With a long sigh, I accept my fate and prepare to blurt out my question of a lifetime.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">But I can’t. The gates opened, but the rushing flow of words can’t seem to burst out. I just stand here, mouth opened, pupils dilated, trailing off the first syllable of a sentence I can’t bring myself to hike through. As I blindly stare down at her, I can’t help but crack a nerve-wracking ear to ear grin. Whenever I get overly nervous, this always happens. I swear it makes me come off way more, serial killer like than I'd like.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Umm...Lou…” she starts, rather put off by my awkward transaction.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Will you go out with me?” I finish, cutting her off right before she can ask what kind of mental issues I suffer from. Did I seriously interrupt her? Great, I heard rudeness is the perfect way to a woman's heart. With the tips of my fingers, I grimly hold out a small piece of ripped notebook paper scribed with my phone number.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Sure, I’ll call you at around 5…” This time it’s the seventh-period bell that beats her to the finish line. Is it seventh-period already? When I left Gordon to his studying, and my lunch, I had a good fifteen minutes left! Did this small interaction take that long? I can’t believe it...

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">I can’t believe it, she said yes! Holding back a fist pump of victory, my pores suddenly stop perspiring and my eyes dwindled back to their normal size. I did it! I can’t believe she actually said yes, this is the greatest day of my life! Way better than the time the vending machine broke and I got seven free bags of chips!

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">As my heartbeat begins to return to its normal pace after it’s jog, Amy takes the paper and gives me a weak smile that sends it back into a run. I can’t believe this is actually happening. I’ve known her for years, she's been the only person on this earth I’ve felt like I’ve connected with, and now...She actually wants to go out with me!

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">The rest of the day flew by faster than a drunken one night stand with a dollar store harlot. I wasn’t able to tell Gordon how things went, as not only do we not share any of the same classes after lunch, but he had to relinquish his cellphone last year because of financial issues. I’m sure he’s had enough of my ego today anyway, so like the great friend I am, I’ll save the jeers of “I told you so” for tomorrow.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">After a brisk 5 minute run from school, I returned home from my long day of being a player. Opening the stain glass door to reach and open the inner wooden framed passage, I jiggle the handle only to find it locked.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Seriously?” I moan, lifting up the dirt stained, plain welcome mat we keep the spare key under. I’m sure the birth givers are home, so I have no idea why the door is locked. Sure their cars are always in the garage, but moms normally home at this hour.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">I was right. As I open the doors to enter my lovely, heart warming home, I see my mother from across the room, back facing me, and staring out the window from the kitchen island. Maybe If I’m quiet I can sneak past her? Hmm...It’s worth a shot, as I like to avoid as much confrontation with them as possible.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">Trying my sneakiest, tipping toeing and all, I slowly make my way to the staircase that’s connected to the kitchen. placing my foot on the bottom stair and gripping onto the stair rod, I finally made it home free.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Louis,” says the voice of a battered middle-aged female. Damn it, so close. Slumping over and taking my foot off the step, I turn around and stare at the freshly polished wooden floor.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Yes, mother?” I respond attentively, holding in any portrayal of unease.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Schools almost over, have you finished applying to the college affiliated with your father’s hospital? There’s only a week until the deadline and he can’t do anything for you if you don’t even put in the effort to fill out the application,” she states, more monotone than Gordon. Typical...

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Actually, there’s this school that approved me for study in their architecture program. It’s a state away, but the dorms are free if you work for the school…” A slam from the newspaper in her hand causes simultaneous creeks from the recliner in the living room. Great, he’s home early today.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">As his boots stomp on the hardwood floor, my composure of obedience begins to falter. I shouldn’t have said anything and just played it out for a few more weeks and left under the cover of night. Sure I would starve to death with no financial support, but that seems like a problem best saved for after I escape prison. You can go two weeks without food after all. Or is that without internet? I’ll look it up later.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">As the trucker built man comes up the single step into the kitchen, he smooths his stressed gray hair with his beaten right hand. With a glare under his lenses, he speeds towards me and grabs the collar of my purple polo.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Go upstairs now and apply. Afterward, I will work with the school and get you accepted into a nursing program for credits and work experience. I’ve had to pull several strings to make this happened because of your slacking, and it will not go to waste.” I can smell the afternoon alcohol on his breath, but the demanding nature of his tone isn’t contributed to intoxication. If anything, I can say he’s being more giddy than normal. I’m probably going to regret this, but I will regret it even more if I don’t even try.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Dad…” I start but quickly change to a more professional, more pitiful tone. “Sir, I don’t think a career in the medical choice is the best fit for me. I only got a B in Biology and…” He lets go of my shirt with a shove, causing me to slightly loose my balance.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Go upstairs and apply now!” he demands, as he turns and begins walking towards my mother. “I pay for your food, your clothing, and the roof over your head. You’re my son and I’ll pick the path most beneficial to the both of us. Keep in mind, you’re existence is nothing more than an insurance policy and it’s up to you to pay the interest.” Hugging her from behind, he stares into her eyes as he stinks her breath with cheap liquor. Most parents would have the courtesy to do such things in private, but as I head up the stairs, I hear soft moans and a few growls. There’s no point in disagreeing is there? A selfish man sees nothing outside his own self-absorbed line of sight. Believing nothing can harm him, believing he’s always in the right, it’s a shame that it’ll be his undoing.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">Shutting my door, I can’t help but take advantage of the isolation and giggle a bit. I guess I don’t have a choice in the matter, but that’s fine. This is a golden opportunity to kick the old wolf from the pack. After all, not only is it extremely easy to lose your job in a hospital, but one simple mistake in a complex life or death surgery can cause a flow of lawsuits that will lead even the most accredited medical professional to nothing. Sure, it will be a grueling few years until the situation presents itself where I can one up him, maybe save someone's life before him, make something go wrong during surgery, or one of the other endless possibilities, but it will all work out. After all, I’ll be right by your side the whole time, observing every one of your habits as you pamper me and mentor me in your own undoing. I can’t say you’ve been a bad father. You’ve never raised your hand to me, and you keep the fridge stocked with name brand soda, but a child isn’t something you have to make up for your own shortcomings. It’s not something you own, and it doesn’t owe you anything for life.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">Agh, there’s really no reason to think too hard about it. Right now my top priority is getting my charm on, as in less than an hour I’ll be planning a date with the most gorgeous girl in the world. Are movies to cliche? Honestly, I hate sitting through them, but sitting next to her the whole time, waiting for that romantic climax when the serial kill beheads a half naked college girl to wrap my arms around her insecurity seems like a darling idea.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">Or maybe fine dining is the way to go? A nice wine and dine, followed by a romantic stroll through the light district as I clench my pocket knife to protect her from the creepy homeless men hiding in the alleyways of our city. Sure they might have a numbers advantage, but as a green belt, I’m more than confident in my self-defense skills.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">I sit and go over dramatic and cliche date ideas for what seems like hours until I notice it has been hours.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">It’s 7 PM. You can’t be serious? I turn on my phone, showcasing the bland flower pattern most default store phones have and see zero missed calls. Did I give her the wrong number? Did something happen? Did the homeless men get to her when I wasn’t by her side? It’s Friday, maybe I should check on her this weekend? Or would that be too awkward and make me seem desperate?

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">As I ponder a million different theories, the escalating song on my phone notifies me I’m getting a call. I don’t recognize the number, but it's got the same area code! It must be Amy! Stabbing the dreaded butterflies of nervousness in my chest, I pick up the phone and try to sound less eager than I actually am.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Hello?” I say, pressing down the speaker button to hear better.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Hey, Is this Louis?” A male's voice? That’s weird, doesn’t even sound like anyone I know.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Yes, who is this?” I take a seat on my bed, stretching my stiff arms in the air as I wait for a reply. Better not be a telephone marketer again.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“This is Greg from science class. Gordon told me you were into video games. I was wondering if you wanted to hit up the midnight gaming session at the arcade with me?” Greg, Greg, I say over and over in my head trying to remember who this alleged student is until it hits me. I believe he’s that one really nerdy kid who sits in the back with a bowl cut and uncomplimentary dress shirts. I’ve never even talked to him, how’d he get my number?

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Look, man, even if I swung that way I’d still have standards. I appreciate the offer but this is a restricted line and you have to keep it clear as I’m waiting on a phone call. I don’t know how you got my number, but have a nice night.” It’s a shame I have to let him down so hard, but I already have swarms of women fighting over me, I can’t add in guys as well. As I reach to over to check the red end call button, his voice stutters through the cheap speaker.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Actually you don’t,” he quivers. This sparks my interest so I let him continue. “I got this number from the trash can. I saw the exchange with Amy, and after you both went in opposite directions, she threw your number away and began laughing at you with her friends. Sorry, I just thought that you should know. Like me you’re not really the most popular out there, so, I’m sorry. You want to go play some games, it might cheer you up?” His weak and pathetic voice can’t even compare to how I feel right now. Is he telling the truth, or is he just trying to date rape me? Would Amy really do something like that? No, she wouldn’t, we’ve been friends for so long, but then, this was the first time I’ve given her my number. I’ve never been to her house since we were kids either, and we don’t even walk to school despite only living a block away from each other. Does she really dislike me? I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. Maybe, if I see and ask him in person, I’ll be able to tell if he’s lying or not. I hope he is, but then why hasn’t she called me yet? Am I just jumping to conclusions? Damn it.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Sure, I’ll jump climb out my window and meet you there in around ten minutes, ok?” He hangs up without consent to our plans. To be honest, that's rather off-putting and raises some flags. Is he just trying to pull a joke on me or something? I’ve never even see Gordon talk to this kid, but I guess at the end of the day, he could just be a really nice nerdy kid who needs some friends. Worst case scenario, he stands me up and I get to play old fashioned arcade games till midnight.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">At around 7:30, as I stand under neon lights that have yet to be turned on, I get a call from his number. While waiting, I saved it under his name so I wouldn’t jump to any Amy conclusions when and if he decided to call me again. Maybe ten minutes wasn’t enough time for him? I should have asked him how far away he lives.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Hey, are you running late or something?” I say into the phone after accepting the call. I hear nothing, just heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. You gotta be kidding me. Before I can say anything, his voice sparks into a crazed, panicked tone.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“This is your fault!” he screams into the receiver before hanging up. What’s my fault? Did I do something to him? I don’t recall ever getting revenge on him before for anything. I guess sending me to some random location and standing me up can count as a prank? A rather lackluster attempt at a joke, especially by my standards, but he’s always come off as an introvert so I shouldn't’ expect something more crafty. Maybe he had a crush on Amy or something? At least now I don’t have to limit myself to two play machines and dealing with the awkward silence of hanging out with someone I don’t really know while I shoot zombies.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">That’s when the flash of a heavy object falls before my eyes, followed by a stream of warm liquid splashing onto my face. Falling onto my back in shock, my breath becomes heavy as the few night walkers around me begin to scream in panic. With wide eyes, I look at the crimson stained mess in front of me. His nerdy bowl cut was now a mix of gooey pale mater and showcased bits of bone protruding from his crooked neck. His arms and legs are twisted in odd angles, just like some insomniac trying to sleep.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">What just happened? What is this?

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Gre..?” I try and manage, as I began to hyperventilate. You can’t be serious, is that really him? I can’t remember what color shirt he wore to school today, but he’s wearing a poor quality, now blood stained dress shirt. I try and get up by supporting myself with one arm, but it’s no use and I just fall back onto my rear. What’s going on? This can’t be...The hyperventilating stops long enough just for me to vomit onto the sidewalk, as the shock of examining a mangled corpse hits me. Is that really him? It can’t be, why would he?

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">As reality begins to distort and silence itself, I notice a crowd of people began to form around me and the corpse. I can’t hear anything they’re saying. I see their animated lip widened and shut in quick quarks as they speak on their phones, but nothing’s coming out.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:2.4;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#efefef;font-weight:400;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">Whipping the access saliva from my mouth with the sleeve of my shirt, I can make out just one sound in the distance. My phone! Someone's calling me! As I slowly rotate my head and see the flashing now cracked screen, I notice, it’s Greg's number. <ac_metadata title="I Shouldn&#039;t Have Had A Kid (Chapter 1-8)"> </ac_metadata>