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anonymous reflection (1 Viewer)

B

bicycle

I wrote this awhile ago to clear my head, it's my first real non-fiction story so let me know how I did...
___________________

The alarm flashed 3:30; too early to go to sleep and too late to wake up.
Another day has come and gone.

This is the story as I know it.

There was a rhythm; to each their own.

He was just another boy, and she was just another girl. He was a sophomore. She was a junior. Not a big difference but one worth mentioning all the same.

They say high school years are an important time for growing, changing, evolving. These are the years to experience life.

I didn’t know them well and I guess, you might say, I heard this story second hand. No this isn’t one of those ‘through the grapevine’ stories or a ‘guess what was written on the bathroom wall’ scandal; it falls somewhere between a first hand experience and a message passed down through the telephone game.

I had seen him walking across campus, no I’m not some stalker hiding in the bushes, I notice things; call it a habit. Even before this story began he had a certain air about him. It’s hard to describe.

In my opinion, there are a few key things to notice when trying to understand someone; their walk, their behavior, and what they buy at the grocery store. So, since I didn’t plan on following him around the local supermarket, the first thing I took note of was the way he walked. It wasn’t fast and it wasn’t slow, but it was very specific. Loose steps, casual steps; it was almost as if he was a doll that decided to get up and start walking around. He was loose but calculated.

Next I tried to pick up on his characteristics. A year before this story took place I had him in my French class. He sat in the front row, though not by choice. He was smart, but didn’t show it. He acted asocial but was friends with half the class (mostly girls). He wore the same uniform outfit everyday; he was addicted to sharpies. Now granted this addiction may not seem important, but all during class he would sit and draw pictures all up his arm, only to wash them away. He drew symbols of peace signs and listened to music. He wore incense behind one ear and carried a lighter where ever he went. He was dating another girl then; smart, pretty, full of tie-dye and flowers.

At that time I almost became infatuated with him. Not in a girly crush sort of way but he was intriguing. I didn’t seek him out, I simply took notice when he was around. Ninth grade was kind of the groundwork for what he became that next year.

By the time tenth grade rolled around I had spent the summer trying to start fresh, in fact I had nearly forgotten him. He wasn’t in a single class of mine and I rarely saw him elsewhere. This is where the second hand recording picks up.

He became friends with another girl and apparently they became close. They didn’t date; whether they kissed or not was edited from my version. She wasn’t ready for a relationship but he was. He went to her and cried; she turned him away. Now, this is not meant to point fingers, she just couldn’t deal with another life in her hands. Was this the motive for his following course of action? To tell you the truth I’m still not quite sure. It’s simply another piece to fill the puzzle.

There is a drug in cough syrup called dextromethorphan that insecurity finds intriguing. This is known as a “psychedelic drug,” users have been known to see hallucinations and loose touch with reality. The drug is affective in four plateaus ranging from feeling tipsy to complete disassociation from the outside world.

The house was empty. He got his pills together, still hidden in their packaging. Then she called as he was unwrapping his trip. She heard the foil that surrounded the pills break; as he piled each one on the desk. She said good bye and this time he didn’t cry as he swallowed each red pill. He wasn’t looking for death, but he also wasn’t turning it away. Now I ask, is it a suicide attempt if you purposely overdose on drugs; not caring if you live or die?

A headache consumed him and movement became impossible. The room went dark as plateau four was reached.

His mother found him there, lying on the floor, in a puddle of red. His salvation was red vomit; his mind may have been ready but his body wouldn’t let him go. She tucked him back into his bed which is where he found himself when he woke.

His mother was worried wondering what had happened to her little boy. She asked him and he told her he got drunk and ate red mints to cover the smell. The lie was better than the reality. Accepting any excuse, she believed him.

The girl and he never talked after that and so he met me. His life went on, and as he claimed, he wished he had been aborted anyway.
 

mammamaia

Senior Member
what do you mean by 'a non-fiction story'?... it reads like fiction, so i had to ask...

hugs, maia
 
B

bicycle

Well it's an entirely true story so that's why i said non-fiction, but i usually write fiction so maybe that's why it reads that way.
 

bobothegoat

Senior Member
Evil_Klown said:
Well, as a true story, it sounds like everyday life to me. His problems, you don't tell, telll!
:-s

I liked it. In regards to comments of it reading like fiction, I think that's a good thing. It helps to keep the reader interested. Sorry I can't offer much in the form of constructive critism though.
 
J

johnjohndoe

this is the first piece i have read in this catagory. i like its pacing. it's very well written. very nice, indeed.
 
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