A Moment in Time

This short story was written in like 6 days for a school contest so it's absolute crap but enjoy

Today, if you ask a 10-year-old boy what he wants to be when he grows up, his face will probably light up and he'll tell you he wants to be an astronaut, blasting off into space and discovering aliens in distant worlds. He'll tell you he wants to be a firefighter, and catch the damsel in distress when she jumps from a burning building. He'll tell you he wants to be a superhero, or a spy, or a pro wrestler. If you had asked me though, I would've simply told you that I wanted to be a man. I would've told you that I couldn't wait to be tall enough to touch any ceiling, strong enough to lift any weight, and know no fear. I would've told you that I wanted to hit my father five million times harder than he could ever hit me. I did actually say these things to anyone who asked, like my 4th grade teacher. She was a small and fragile woman, waiting patiently for the age of retirement to knock on her door. Of course my comments concerned her, but every call to my house was left unanswered and every conference scheduled was postponed until she had given up on speaking with my father. She fell deaf to my disturbing comments and became blind to the bruises on my face. After being given up on a couple of more times, I resorted to pretending that everything had suddenly gotten better at home and that the violence had ceased. I went to the drug store and bought women's concealer to cover up every wound, and I found peace in the sudden absence of questions along the lines of "What happened to you?" and "Who did that?"

Before you pinpoint my father as the villain of this story, I have an explanation for his actions that allowed me to overlook them for a few years and abandon my desire to give him a taste of his own medicine. When I was only 5 years old, and my sister 3 months old, my mother left. It was guilt that drove her to admit her unfaithfulness to my father, and though he was so blinded by love that he was willing to forgive her infidelities, she couldn't seem to forgive herself. I'm positive that my mother only wanted my father to move on, to remarry, but he decided that alcohol was enough to fill the space she had left, and so he spent the next 9 years trapped in a drunken haze. My life wasn't very glamorous, but don't be fooled; Happiness was no stranger to me. She had hair darker than a raven's feather and eyes that you could seemingly dive into. As I sat on the edge of my bed with my backpack slumped against my leg, I could hear the soft patter of her feet as she ran to my door, probably in a rush to show me everything that she had learned in school that day.

My weathered bedroom door flew open, nearly ripped from its hinges, and my head snapped up from the soda stain on my carpet. I rested my eyes on my sister, standing in the hallway panting like a dog with uncombed hair and wild eyes. What really grabbed my attention, though, was her toothy grin. It was obvious that she was bursting at the seams, but I pretended not to notice. "What did I tell you about knocking?" I reprimanded her.

"Oh, right, sorry!" She quickly reached for the handle of my door, pulled it shut again, and pounded on the door with her fists as if she were a policeman preparing to raid my room.

"Emily, stop that! Just come in."

My door was once again swung open, and she bounded into my room, this time with a piece of paper in hand. She immediately shoved it into my hands, and my eyes swam over bolded letters in a cursive font that I could barely read. My gaze flickered from the paper to her face, which had gotten even brighter as she awaited my praise.

"Wow! This is awesome!" I exclaimed, even though I had no clue what this was.

"I know! I came in first place, so I'm officially the best speller in my entire grade! O-F-F-I-C-I-A-L-L-Y!"

Ah, so this is a certificate from a spelling bee, I thought to myself as I glanced at the unrecognizable words again. I handed the certificate back to her, then kicked off my shoes and swung my legs onto my bed.