Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

A Splitting Headache

I have been practicing for this race my whole life. Running is the only thing I know. I’m running against my number one competitor, we are literally have a one second difference between our best times. I don’t like him at all, I’ve never liked him honestly. When we were in kindergarten we hated each other. Here as we stand waiting for the gunshot, I still hate him.
I need to win this, so many great opportunities will open up for me after I win this. I have prayed to every higher power I could think of, God, Buddha, the Devil, some Greek gods and goddesses and many more. I hope one of those powers bestows grace upon me allowing me to run my best time so far and win.

I hold my breath as the track begins to imprint my fingers. That’s a feeling that many other racer’s complain about, but it’s like my life. I love that feeling. I’ve already begun to sweat, I shake my head a little so it doesn’t go into my eyes. I bite my lip, something I always do during those few moments before the gunshot.

Bang. I push myself out of my starting position and start running. We stay at the same pace for most of the race. As we reach the final stretch of the race I pull out into the lead. I turn my head ever so slightly and see him gaining on me. I begin to repeat my prayers in my head praying to all of the higher powers.

Suddenly he starts coughing. I turn around again to see him slowing down. I silently thank the higher powers knowing one of them listened to my prayers. I keep running and turn once again to see him kneeling on the side of the track, green liquid pouring from his mouth. The track we are running on has trees that obstruct the view of the track so right now I’m the only one that can see what’s going on.

He stands up, the liquid still gushing from his mouth and starts jogging down the track again. I start to run backwards so I can see what is going on better and whip away the sweat from my brow. His hands slowly lift up and clutches the sides of his head. He lets out a scream that I’m sure the people in the stands can hear very well. Then his head splits in two. It slices from the inside out down the center of his head. I turn around and run even faster to the finish line.

“1:12.” The man says as I cross the finish line. Then he says, “Where is Matt? Who was screaming?”

I stare at the man for a moment before I say “He’s dead. He got shot.”

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

Site Feedback