Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

The Walk

My name is Alice. I have curly black hair and hazel eyes. I am fifteen years old. My best friend’s name is Emily. Do any of those facts have any importance? No, except for the last one. I was heading to her house when it happened. A startling change to my otherwise ordinary life.
I had been having the usual argument with my parents. The cleanliness of my room was always a hot topic. They said disastrous; I said lived in, unlike the rest of my pristine house. The discussion was full of the usual eye rolling and crossed arms. I assured them I would organize my room once I got back from Emily’s. We had to work on an important school project, or so they thought. The last thing I told them was a lie.
I grabbed my bag and my iPod. I stepped outside and was greeted by a blast of cool autumn wind. Although Emily and I lived on the same road, it was a country dirt road. Meaning, she lived a half a mile away from me. To make the time go by faster, I turned on my iPod and cranked up the volume. Yes, I am a typical teenager.
The wind violently whipped my hair into my face, and it was clearly audible over my blaring music. As if the cold and the wind were not enough, it began to pour. Hard.
My first thought was for my iPod. I stowed it safely away in my bag and trudged on. Now my attention was on the situation at hand. It was not ideal. The rain blinded me, and I could not hear a thing over the cry of the wind, which was pushing me all over the side of the road. Despite all of that, I pushed on, knowing Emily’s house was less than five minutes away.
The only warnings I received were the rocks that pelted the back of my legs. I whipped around curiously. In that split second I saw headlights cutting through the rain pointed straight at me, and heard the fain roar of an engine. That’s when it hit me both figuratively and literally. There was a car barreling straight me.
Quietness.
Darkness.
Nothingness.
Until now. I can hear rhythmic beeping, footsteps, and…crying. I can smell antiseptic and something less strong. Something floral. My mom’s perfume. I crack open my eyes and I’m painfully and temporarily blinded. Speaking of pain, I feel like someone beat me with hammers. An involuntary groan slips out and someone rushes to my side.
I blink until the figure hovering over me is identifiable, although I already know who it is. My mom, with one hand clasping mine gently and the other covering her mouth. I’m alive.




Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!




Site Feedback