Average

Where It All Began (1)

Hi, my name is...Braxton. Yeah, that's a weird name, I know. I wasn't exactly praised for it either. Anyway, we're getting off track. I'm just a average 18-year-old boy who lives in Lanchester. But this story, it's anything but average. So, be prepared for the tale I'm about to tell you...

It started on April 19- my birthday, 'bout three months ago. I know- cliche right?

I was pumped as a going-on-18 boy could be. Finally, I was going to get the treatment I deserved. Look out, here he comes! Mr. Adult coming through!

Well, that was my idea of mature treatment anyway. I remember I was fixing my blue button-up in my room's next door bathroom, putting all the shiny, white buttons into the correct place holes. It was my favorite shirt, I wore it- still do-all the time. My mom came into my blue-palette room- not noticing me in the very eye-catching, white bathroom, calling my name. She was in distress, tears leaked down her face and the trails of lonely tears plastered, barely visible, on her smooth complexion. I darted out toward the sound of her voice and a loud thump.

"Mom!" She was passed out, on the floor. She was a mess of sweat, tears, and....blood. She had been stabbed, or shot, or...gutted...

I didn't know, and frankly I didn't care how it happened, I just wanted to get her out of there. I leaned down, kneeling on the floor, with one hand holding up my Mom's head. "Mom..." I said weakly, jerking back many tears- still letting few escape. My mom....was she going to do die?

I pushed back the long, Burnett mop from her head and traced my fingers across her cheek line to her jaw line. Mom's bright blue, snowy eyes shot open. She looked at me, strangely, I should add. She opened her mouth.

"Mom..?" Gees, those are the only words I've spoken the past eight minutes. Anyway, her pale body lay limb, but alive, on the baby blue carpet. She looked around, observing her surroundings. But then, she turned her attention to me once more.

"Brax..tie..." My Mom said, her voice raspy. Oh, that's her nickname for me by the way. 'Braxtie,' it's creative I'll tell you that. "Shh...what do-" She sat up and fell over on me- kind of like a tackle- then shot up to my bed for the pillows.

Next thing I knew...I was gasping for air underneath a mess of pillows and my mother's body weight...