monkeygospunky
This was it. Word leather handle of the luggage didn't feel heavy in my hand anymore; if anything it pulled me toward the day. I know I must have looked scattered and distant in my husband's drunken eyes, fleeing out that door. Leaving bitter words to eat at him, I left, the bruises throbbing, my head still damp with blood.
The apron was splattered and ruined with paint, crumpled and neglected. But nevertheless I didn't care, flinging the darts into the paint-filled balloons. I laughed by his side as we made the terrible, free art together. And I looked into his eyes, they were just as wild as the colors upon the wall.
Laughter is beautiful. Not that fake crap- the insisant giggles of a foolish, fake girl wanting to please a boy by looking stupid, however that helps, the real kind. The kind that when a full and successful life is coming to it's completion, you can tell that it was a full and successful life- by the laugh lines.
He was tipping, hyperventilating, questioning. The edge was right there, a path into what he thinks might be salvation. Salvation from this dreary life, salvation from everything else. It felt like a knife under his feet, close enough to take away the pain in a split second. And with that, he edged to the window, and climbed back in.
I wish I was a kid agian, because I never realized how easy I had it. The worst thing that can hurt you is a skinned knee, and the worst thing that can be pass around is,"Hey, Sarah LIKE-LIKES Steven." The worst words are, "I see London, I see France, I can see your underpants!" You stole cookies. You cheated at hide and seek maybe. A boy broke your crayon, and not your heart. I miss being a kid.
Lots of things are pressed, from shirts to peoples' schedule. Okay, that was STUPID. I'm sorry. I guess I'm PRESSED for humor. If I was famous, I'm sure the PRESS would hear about that. You know what, I write serious stuff most of the time but screw it. Puns. I'm pressing keys. Okay that wasn't a pun. That was just a fact. I can't think right now, it seems I've PRESSED myself into a corner. I can't deal with this PRESS..ure. Okay. I'm done.
I can try to think enough to write, but I'm preoccupied. I want to learn to knit and sew and be creative, but I'm preoccupied. I want to become a spontaneous person, to be a free and creative spirit, but I'm preoccupied. Hours of marching band practice. Hours of school. Hours of not-so-fun life otherwise. I want to live more, but I'm preoccupied.
I'm convinced that my school actually has a heart. Yesterday, a wonderful 16 year old girl got in a life-threatening car accident, and today, she's become a new angel. As it turns out, purple is her favorite color, so we all decided to wear it. I've never known her personally or even heard of her because I'm a few years younger, but whether anyone knew her or not, the hallways were an endless sea of purple. You will obviously be missed, Kelsey, it's not the end, because you're living in our hearts. I'm convinced of this.
The two glared at each other, both in fear, one had it in his hand. The gun. It felt evil under his hand, as it reared for its pray, and he didn't feel like he was himself anymore. He's a dummy, a slave to the gun. It pulled it's own trigger, it seems, at the other's eyes were calm. Too calm, as he fell backwards agianst the cement.