Short Stories

Ten

I was up in my room after the interrogation from my mom.
Words in all caps flew through my ear drums, sending me towards the stairs, frowning with anger.

I know she was just worried about me, but why does she have to yell?
Adults confuse me sometimes.
I shake my head and mutter incoherent curses under my breath as I steadily raise my hand to my room's doorknob.

I open my door only to find it a dump. I stand outraged staring at the emptied out drawers of my bedside table and the clothes in my closet have been trampled upon while crumpled in a heap, resting on the floor.

My window that leads to the slanted roof is opened and the mesh wiring screen was ripped open, letting in the frigid air of midnight weather during fall.
Why would someone do this?

Minutes later my mother and father stood, mirroring my exasperated expression. I heard my dad dial a number and speak into the phone.

Police arrived. Everything seemed to be happening faster than it was. Police interviewed me and asked if anything seemed to be missing. They asked where I was before I came home. They asked questions of my social life and if I had any known enemies.

I stood, glaring at my room as police left our house, saying they will put a report in the evening news.
I started to clean up the mess, bending down to pick up articles of clothes from my floor.

What a good way to piss me off even more on a terrible day.

I glared at my surroundings as I was cleaning. Took me about one hour of sulking and rapid cursing aloud.

My hand flew to a red ski hat that I wore almost everyday to school, now. My short hair looks somewhat like a charred chicken. It was flaky at the ends and felt stubborn at the crown of my head.

I felt pestered, suddenly, of the overwhelming amount of bullshit brimming over the edge of the metaphorically spoken hot cup of attitude, topped off with a refreshing amount of the cream of no common sense.

I was frustrated, for some reason, letting my anger take me over and slam me to the pavement.
I was not going to let my weird mood swung emotions make me revolt against any type of matter in my way.

I pent up my anger and just signed a long sigh of resentment towards life and all that follows in its path.

By the time everything was in its proper place, I'd discovered, in fact, something was missing.
I frowned at the empty spot that practically left a pale square in the centre of my wall, just before the carpeting.

Why would they take that?

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I was tagged and bagged, thrown in a car and taken to god knows where.
Worst comes to worst, I get DD-ed.
I struggle with the bindings behind my back as I try to shake off the cliché potato bag over my head.

Eventually I managed to slide my face out of the bag, resulting in myself being able to see, no longer blinded by the fabric.

We were in a van, myself lying on the hard metal flooring, and a driver whom was facing light that only a moon could reflect off of the sun; grey and ominous.

Mist circled the van as soon as it came to a halt at a red light. Daren't I say a word shall the man set my jaw jagged.

I wiggle upright, causing a slight stir in the atmosphere: tense.
I lay down again, tucking my head towards the empty carcass of the potato sack, making the illusion that I am still bound as he set me.

I heard a grunt of satisfaction, and I bolted upright, not wanting to waste anymore time.

The man stopped the car, making my side slam into the wall separating myself from the driver. I quickly laid down on my side, once again as the eerie footsteps led to the back doors.

I shut my eyes, pretending to be unconscious, as I used to be about ten minutes earlier.
He dragged me out of the car, not knowing that I am fully conscious. 

My feet first hit the ground, texture as gravel. My head snaps onto the hard onto the hard, sharp pieces of rock that embed themselves in my skin, making a crater that will surely last.

My vision blurs and wobbles as my eyes are now barley open.

I am pulled to my senses when the man stands over me, and shifts me onto my back. He slaps me repeatedly, as if to wake me.

My open my eyes, tired of the pain. The man punched me once before taking a pair of scissors from his back pocket.

In a rough European accent, he orders," I want a real battle, so give me one!"

He yells at me again before letting loose my bindings.

I struggle to my feet, and raise my fists. Step one: act like a pitiful character.

I start to sob, betraying my tuff-man uniform I kept on almost daily. But after the days spent in the white cell, I couldn't help but feel I'm not just acting.

The man lowers his fists he once raised and stares at me with tolerable amounts of hatred fuming at me from about five feet.

Good, I've set his guard down.

I quickly swipe my foot underneath his feet, causing him to tumble. I grab him by his collar and punch him repeatedly until he is throughly out of it, and almost on the verge of sleep.

I grab the man's keys from his clenched hand and hear him moan in defeat and pain.

I put the truck in gear and drive to the nearest highway and see where it takes me.
I see a sign in passing my headlights: Kamari Village.

Another passes by. North: Santorini National Airport.

I'm in Greece. I speed toward the airport. I'm on my way home, Adria, I'm coming home.
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