Years Past

Age 7

To those who read, and to those who dream, words are a beautiful thing. Enjoy 'Years Past', a salute to the end of my fanfiction.

Age 7, Alex's P.O.V

            I hate school. No, like really, really hate it. I sit in the back of the class, closest to the window where the pencil sharper sits. All day I hear the stupid humming from the machine when someone sharpens a dull lead. Its annoying. I also can't stop myself from gazing outside; glancing at leaves, trees, the sky.

            "Alex, your answer?" I hear an annoying voice hum in the air as I peer up at the woman looking down at me. She's judging me, like all teachers do. I squint my eyes, trying to make out what she wants before I clear my throat.

            "What was the question again?" I ask, sitting up as if I was paying attention all along.

            "If you were listening you'd know, now wouldn't you?"

            "I don't know, would I?"

            "Alex," I watch as Mrs. Green places her fingers on my desk and her eyes tiredly look into mine. "If you'd wish to pass the second grade, I suggest you start paying attention."

            "I do. I pay attention to things outside and in the yard and..."

            "That goes on in my class Miss Russo," Mrs. Green lets her voice fill the air as the class begins to whisper.

            "Well you shouldn't be so boring," I mumble, rolling my eyes.

            "That's it. Go to the principal's office."

            "What did I do?" I ask, my eyes opening widely. A sigh escapes the woman.

            "If I didn't enjoy children so much I'd put myself in the nut house because of you. Pay attention." Her voice doesn't really get to me, but I nod and face the board. But moments later I'm staring out the window once more, lost at the freedom everything has, except me.

Age 7, Mitchie's P.O.V

            My dad stops the car near our new home. His eyes light up as he speaks to my mom. I cup my white teddy bear against my chest, its baby-blue bow rubbing against my skin as both my parents look back at me. I don't want to start at a new school, and I don't want new friends. My mom says something that I can't hear before she opens her door. My dad follows behind her as I take a deep breath. My eyes float over to the house as I take in its look. Two stories, a front yard with steps leading up to the first floor. There must be a basement here.

            "Come on honey, lets take a look." My dad opens my door, smiling at me as I shake my head in agreement. My mom grabs my hand, leading the way as I look around the block. There aren't any kids outside, but they should be in school at this time anyway I guess.

            "When will I go to school?" My voice brings an echo to the empty space inside the home.

            "Tomorrow. Your dad and I want you to get adjusted as soon as possible," my mom smiles, squeezing my hand in comfort as I follow her. I don't understand anything that she's telling me. I get, 'this is our new living room,' or, 'this is the new kitchen,' but it seems strange. Unfamiliar. Scary.

            "And this is your room," my mom releases me, "you can paint it whatever colors you'd like. Your old room was red and black, remember? Do you want to make it the same?"

            I shrug.

            "Your dad and I should unpack a few things before the movers bring the furniture. You can come out to help if you'd like. Or explore some more. I really do hope you like it here Mitchie," my mom brushes her fingers through my hair as I stand there. Alone.