Loneliness Short Story
It's been raining for days now. I can't remember the last time I saw the sun. So long I can't remember. I don't pay much attention to the days. I don't pay much attention to anything at all really. It always gets me in trouble. I get in trouble a lot. You wouldn’t think it, 14 year old Timmy Carter, innocent, quiet, lonely, in trouble? No one would pick it, but then again, no one knows me. People know the school Timmy Carter, a smart kid with a smile on my face. But if anyone was to look closely at the smile, it would resemble the window in my bedroom that overlooks the graveyard across the street, cracked and broken, broken. But everyday it does what it needs to, keeps the rain out, only just.
I woke up this morning, its raining again. I walk to my cupboard, pick out my school uniform and my smile. It will be a tough day today, no art. I love art. I have friends in art. Friends who understand me. Friends who help me express me. They're my canvas and a paint brush. I can express my feelings with them. They do not curse at me. They do not ignore me. They do not hate me. I trudged along to school, barely able to muster up the courage to put one foot in front of the other, thinking of all the depraved things that could happen today. Every step, a struggle. Not physically, a struggle to muster up the courage to put one foot in front of the other. The oak trees that lined the road, all old and weary, gave no shelter from the rain. No protection, no support, no friendship. Just me. I arrived at the prison, slumped in my chair and daydreamed. Dreamed of a day the sun would finally come back out. Class went forever. Each tick of the old, dusty clock on the wall became less painful, because it was closer to the end of the day, but still painful. The bell rung, lunchtime, finally.
I tried to join in with a game of handball. I wasn’t too bad because I’d practiced a lot in my room during the time I wasn’t sobbing or sleeping. I slipped in silently, but my cover was broken
I woke up this morning, its raining again. I walk to my cupboard, pick out my school uniform and my smile. It will be a tough day today, no art. I love art. I have friends in art. Friends who understand me. Friends who help me express me. They're my canvas and a paint brush. I can express my feelings with them. They do not curse at me. They do not ignore me. They do not hate me. I trudged along to school, barely able to muster up the courage to put one foot in front of the other, thinking of all the depraved things that could happen today. Every step, a struggle. Not physically, a struggle to muster up the courage to put one foot in front of the other. The oak trees that lined the road, all old and weary, gave no shelter from the rain. No protection, no support, no friendship. Just me. I arrived at the prison, slumped in my chair and daydreamed. Dreamed of a day the sun would finally come back out. Class went forever. Each tick of the old, dusty clock on the wall became less painful, because it was closer to the end of the day, but still painful. The bell rung, lunchtime, finally.
I tried to join in with a game of handball. I wasn’t too bad because I’d practiced a lot in my room during the time I wasn’t sobbing or sleeping. I slipped in silently, but my cover was broken