unamusedmuser
Maybe it's shock, or the fact that you've been injured so many times before that you're pretty much impervious to pain, but you don't feel too bad.
Sure, it hurts. But it's just a dull ache in your right arm; Right now you'd reckon a paper cut, a stubbed toe or even a step on a lego piece would be much worse than this. Pain wise.
It looks, however, much worse than how it feels.
Your eyes trace the holes where sharp canines had penetrated, tearing in your muscles and flesh. The paper towel you'd be so kindly offered moments ago was now soaked in blood and god knows what else. Well, at least the tetanus shot you got a few months back was worth the trouble.
The female doctor cringes slightly when she -finally- attends to you. It'll sting a bit, she says as she preps a disinfectant spray. You take her words with a grain of salt -you never trust doctors anyways-and brace yourself.
Sting a bit? is a understatement.
This?
This is unadulterated pain.
You do your usual stretches by the side of the field, stretching your calves, arms, everything, as you try to shake your nerves out of system. As you roll your shoulders back and forth, you ponder why you're so...jittery, almost nervous, for this. This is nothing new, but you can't seem to shake the feeling of unease.
After jogging on the spot to get your temperature up -it's a chilly day today and you're not particularly pleased. You hate it when it's chilly- you take a few deep breaths to get your heart rate back to normal.
"You okay?"
Damn, your anxiety must be showing clearly if your coach is picking up on it. With a practiced smirk, you respond with your usual snarkiness,
"Just peachy."
He frowns in response, obviously not convinced but you wave him off before he gets a chance to question you further. You don't need any forms of badgering right now.
Walking to the starting line, you try your best to clear your very cluttered mind; A hard task considering the amount of noise coming from the very enthusiastic stands and the general mass of runners and their coaches milling around.
"Will all runners be proceed to the starting line. The race will commence shortly."
You clench and unclench your fists before settling down into the starting position. There are a few moments for you to take a few more deep breaths.
"Ready.....Set....Go!"
A pistol is shot.
You don't run.
You charge.
Assembly was hardly your favourite period, but if it involved getting out of class early and sitting in an air-conditioned hall for an hour before the final bell rang, you didn't mind it at all.
How bad could the weekly sessions of bullshit talks and even crappier performances get? With a decent pair of earpieces, you could snag a nap without anyone noticing.
Except you left yours on the counter top while rushing out this morning. And that today's assembly session was an award giving ceremony. You'd think that they were giving awards to half the school population, judging by the never ending line of kids waiting to go up on stage.
Your principal blabs on how the kids have done the school proud and to keep up with the good work. You tune her out as you survey her outfit for the day.
You're not really sure if she has a style, or she just randomly throws on clothes (Expensive clothes, no less) in the morning. Her look is a hot mess, with the exception of her Ferragamo pumps. At least she wastes her salary on at least one thing that looks half-decent on her.
The cabinet is beyond stuffed with awards, trophies, scholarships, medals. It even has its own lighting; Making it a makeshift shrine to the accolades received over the years.
Your house never had such a cabinet, your parents never had anything to show off to passing guests what you've accomplished in your life (Except maybe that trophy you got when you were in the 4th grade, during Sports' Day.)
As you stare blankly into the cabinet, poker face in tact when you check your reflection in the glass pane, she proudly recounts how she got that medal, how she got that award, how she was one of few chosen for that scholarship.
You're sure to keep your mouth shut as she talks, knowing whatever that comes out would be tinged with sarcastic quips and spite. Today, you feel oddly compelled not to burst whatever she has going on today.
That includes her sense of accomplishment.
You hate gum.
You hate how the burst of artificial flavorings disappears after a few minutes of chewing, reminding you that what you just chewed on was just flavored plastic.
You hate how it leaves you with a sore jaw and temples when you can't find the damn wrapper to spit it into and dispose it. You hate the god awful aftertaste it leaves you.
You did love gum, once upon a time, when you were a kid. The bright gumballs that you wasted your spare change on, the hope that one day, someone would've invented the everlasting gobstopper.
That was then.
This is now.
You hate gum.
You watch her shove a red velvet cupcake into her mouth, her eyes gleaming with almost murderous glee. She sighs happily as she licks the remaining cream cheese icing from her lips and reaches for another cupcake.
She eats it much slowly now, telling you how much she loves red velvet cupcakes and that the icing is one kind of ah-mazing, and that if she could, she'd probably live off red velvet cake between bites.
You hum noncommittally to her ramblings, sipping on your coffee as you do. She hasn't actually thanked you for making these stupid cupcakes and wasting your time (and money) making that ridiculously hard to perfect icing, but as she reaches for her third cupcake, you don't mind that she hasn't.
After all, she did say that icing was one kind of ah-mazing. You could live with that.
"You really need to find time to clear this pile of crap." She's sitting at your desk, with a cigarette hanging from her mouth. You shrug noncommittally, not bothered to even reply to that. It's easier said than done; You've been trying for years to clear your room, the motivation escapes you as you approach your first hour.
She quietly puffs on her cigarette as you crack open one of the windows. You try not to wonder why she's even here in your house, in your room, smoking her tar-filled sticks and complaining about the mess.
She should've been gone a long time ago.
Instead, you try to focus on how still and (disgustingly) humid the air is tonight and how much you want to take the car out for a ride and drive aimlessly for hours on end til you nearly run out of gas.
You decide that if she's here to start some semblance of conversation, you wouldn't give her satisfaction of getting one.
You're pushing hard to just get through the run. Who the hell thought running a couple of kilometers for PE was a good idea? All you wanted right now was to pass out right now; the asphalt seemed like the best thing to lie on right now.
You're sweating profusely, your heart rates through the roof, you're struggling just to keep an inhale-exhale flow going. You wipe the beads of sweat (Gross, you were so going to shower for an hour to wash away the grime) before they hit your eyes.
In the distance, you see her leading the class, with large easy strides. She's doesn't even look like she's going to die, in fact she looks like she's enjoying it. You realize how far you are behind and grimace; It's going to be a long day.
You'd like to think that after college, after finally getting out to the real world, after getting a stable job, you'd come back as an adult that is able to handle things rationally.
You've since learnt that Life is a falsification of expectations.
Your return will be no different from when you left.
"You deserve the best in the world."
Except you never did deserve anything. Not because you did anything immoral of sorts, no. You never deserved the best because you've never actually done anything to better yourself, anyone, the world.
You live your stagnant and stale life, without changing anything or anyone.
You deserve mediocre, at best.
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writing since 2011 · 23 entries · 23 days shown up
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