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My Own Little Hell
“Herb! Herb! HERB!”
“Get up for school now!”
The scrawny child of fifteen shoved the lousy blanket that rested upon him onto the floor.
“Now D*mmit!” she yelled, grabbing his ear, and hoisting him out of bed.
“Ow…” he groaned as he tumbled over something on the floor, and collapsed onto the blanket he had strewn on the grimy carpet.
“Pick that up,” ordered his mother, pointing at the blanket.
“Louise, get the h*ll in here!” yelled a man’s voice.
Herbert Adams picked up the blanket on the ground of his room, and flattened it onto the bed. He heard noises from the kitchen; the smacks and blows from his father penetrated through his ears like daggers.
His mother screeched something at her husband and stomped into Herb’s room.
“Get up! Get the f*** up!” she shrieked, tearing his blanket in half. Tears were assembling in her eyes, and each drop surged down her bruised cheeks in pure grief. She dropped the blanket and hurriedly darted out of his room as her hands clenched the sides of her head.
Herbert bowed downwards and tenderly picked up his torn blanket. He sat on his bed, gazing at the two pieces of cloth, which were once known as ‘blankie’ in the past. Of course, that was when his family was in healthier days.
He placed the blanket on his knees, and lightly touched the worn-out material.
“Blankie…” he whispered, as a single tear ventured its way down his cheek and plopped onto the ill-treated fabric.
The quarreling in the other room transformed into two armies of death, surrounding Herbert, positioning their chiseled, horrid spears at his quavering body. It was as if every insult, every hit, was another wound Herbert bore from the army of h*ll.
“Herbert, get your things ready,” said his father through gritted teeth. He was acknowledged as the most precious and effective general in the military. He could never be replaced. There was only one human being that could cause the bloody annihilation of his mother’s camps, soldiers, and forts.
Herbert slouched over to the bathroom and performed his usual morning rituals of brushing his teeth, washing his face, and cleaning his glasses.
A feeling of depression swept through him as he tip-toed past the gory war in the kitchen and into his room. Herbert took hold of his essay, which tidily sat on his petite desk, and threw it into his mud-stained backpack.
He put on his backpack and walked into the battlefield.
“Bye mom and dad.”
Each overlooked Herbert’s farewell, and persisted arguing with their opponent as if nothing had occurred.
Within his high school, the same dreadful battle transpired. However, this time, Herbert was planted, single-handedly, in the heart of no-man’s land.
“Hey, Herb, wanna go out?” said a tan, lean, attractive senior, attempting to control her humor. It was okay for her to harm the oppressed, since she was soaring at the summit of the ruthless social ranks.
Herbert lowered his head downwards, color charged uphill to his acne coated face.
“C’mon sweetie, I’m that girl for YOU,” she said, raising her eyebrows twice. A burst of giggles exploded from her trendy friends adjacent to her.
“Shut up, just leave me alone…”
“But I’m madly in love with you my dahhling!” More cackling.
“Rina—what the h*ll are you doin? Kid, get away from my girlfriend, you’re really starting to p*ss me off,” said a beefy senior, approaching the crowd.
Rina’s laughter stopped with a nearly silent gasp, but then morphed into a helpless girl’s cry.
“This d*bag was hitting on me!” she squealed.
“More like a d*F*G!” shouted someone in the crowd that was beginning to form around the scene.
“F*** man, what the f***!?” he said, shoving Herbert onto the school’s cruddy hall.
He battered against the lockers, the huge crash echoed through the long, student-populated hallways. He bit his tongue forcefully, attempting to pretend as if nothing was troubling him; that he was aloof to this unbearable mocking.
Rina looked down on him. For a millisecond, for just one tiny moment, Herbert believed she truly felt sorry for him and his melancholy. Then, Rina let out a hoot of laughter, which added onto those who were already laughing at him.
Herb scrambled to get up, but someone snatched his leg, and he took a fall to the cold, bitter ground of the horrid building.
“What, you can’t get up Herb!?” shouted yet another malicious student.
He gawked at the student behind newly-formed tears.
Herbert got up this time with no issues, but another terror blasted straight at him.
A handful of guys were rummaging through Herbert’s backpack. His essay was torn to shreds, his notebook turned into a million pieces before his eyes, more laughter pierced his ears, and his backpack departed him.
By the end of the day, Herb wanted to kill himself--this emotion was regular. The idea of suicide bounced around the barriers of his brain as if it were a little kid in a dino jump, every single day after school.