Falling Skyward

Leaving

Chapter 3

***Authors Note: Hey sorry I havn't been writing! I've been really busy lately, but I hope this chapter makes up for it!***

My stomach riots against me, and I feel bile creeping up my throat. Clutching my gut, I try to focus on what's happening instead of the revolution taking place between my stomach acids. Well, focusing on the scene unfolding in front of me doesn't help at all. Jack is screaming now as well as crying, and everyone on the bus is starting to notice what's going on. Blood is spattering the ground, with large pools beginning to form under the mangled extremities protruding from the lineman's blood covered hand. I feel my stomach heave at the thought if what I have caused, and I stand up.

My head spins from vertigo as I stumble away from the calamity unfolding in my wake. I move faster as I approach the drivers seat. Ms. Pritch is too focused on yelling at everyone to "shut their ruddy mouths before she sews them shut." It faintly registered in the part of my mind that was actually calm that her accent sounded like she was English or something. But the majority of my brain, the part that was completely and totally scrambled by the fact that I had just crushed a football player's hand into a useless bloody slab of tenderized flesh, with ragged bone shards protruding at awkward angles, was screaming at me to get the hell out of there as fast as I could, or my blue-jeaned sitter was going to be sitting in juvy for the next coupla years. I give in to the instinct of self-preservation, and heave my backpack onto my shoulder, adrenaline coursing through my veins like molten fire. Surprisingly calmly, I stand and slowly stride towards the front of the bus. Everyone who is not shrieking their heads off or wondering what he hell happened is giving me a look I nary receive from other people. Fear. Plain terror is writ on their faces as clear as if they had scrawled it on with Sharpie. I don't even glance to either side of me. Though a feeling of sheer panic a still writhing in my gut, I ignore it. A wave of icy peacefulness replaces it when my foot reaches the top step of the bus exit. Not bothering to ask Ms. Pritch to open the glass door for me, I thrust my hand forward and the door crumples on impact. I hop down the last few stairs, and throw one final glance behind me at the canary yellow bus now chock full of frightened and confused teens, knowing nothing will ever be what it was an hour ago.