Friday, June 11, 2010

Sick: Short, short fiction

Jordan shuffled down the hall, his head hung low and his eyes focused on the ground just in front of his feet. He huddled his books tight to his body. It made him look as if he was going to throw up. Someone bumped him hard. He stumbled forward, dropping his books so he could fling his hand out. His pale palm smashed into the concrete wall. Blood seeped from a few scratches as his breath increased in speed. Looking at his freckled arm, he waited for the next attack Nothing came. After a few seconds he straightened himself up, bending down slowly to pick up the books scattered across the floor. His glasses slid down his nose. Using his right hand, he pushed them back on to his face, leaving a streak of blood showing the path his glasses were forced to follow.

Two girls walked past him. They saw the streak of blood, the sickly characture of the way he held his body. Her nose pulled up in disgust, "Now that's just sick," she sneered as she passed him.

Inside, a little piece of Jordan's mental sanity screamed, "No, it's sick that I am bullied every day and still blamed for being the victim!" And then, that same quiet utterance withered and died.

*** One Minute Writer ***

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