My Half Eaten Sandwich

January 25, 2012
By , Newbury Park, CA
He cried...


l gingerly sprung up from bed as the brisk taste of a new morning coated my tongue; my happy-meter 100% a fresh new week in 4th grade, begins now. I walk into class two minutes late (as usual) and without doubt my friends welcome me with warming smiles. Smiling back, l high five one of them and take a seat. The day blurs on, and life so far, without worries. Lunch break comes in a flash; my friends and I eat lunch: “That sandwich looks good” he says while swiping it out of my hands and taking a bite of it.

‘‘Hey th.-” l protest.

“What? l thought we were friends bro,” he says sarcastically with his mouth half full.

l frown in confusion “Me too.”

“Whats wrong man, I’m just jokn’ with you.” He lightly punches me as he licks the mustard off his fingers.

“I didn’t find it funny.” I mutter back.


The rest of the day I was partially sad but mostly confused about what my friend did to me. A new feeling rose up inside me; this feeling that l couldn't control, this new feeling dubbed, rage.

After school, l saw him talking with my friends. When he saw me he turned,
“Sorr-” l slammed him in the face with the other half of the sandwich left over from lunch. Mayonnaise splattered everywhere as my fist sent him into a tree that almost seemingly pushed him to the ground. He lay there, on his face, crying. I stood there watching him, felt satisfied but empty, a ghost dressed in black. My fists clenched and unconscious tears streamed down my face. l picked him up, brushed him off and hugged him.

We cried, together...





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