Autumn Leaves [DO NOT READ]

Autumn Leaves - 3

The teachers at my newly enrolled school were going on strike; unlucky for most parents who wanted their children to attend school; and then there's me, I didn't find it unlucky at all, but quite the opposite in fact, for now I didn't have to bother with the task of getting up early in the morning - although I do anyway - and getting ready to participate in a boring school filled with people who I have known from the past. 

Now I could just gaze at the sky intently while I lay in the leaves I'd raked up this morning. The house I was currently living in wasn't overly fancy nor did it subject itself to the label of huge; it was nice, simple, plain and dull. The house was more of a cottage in my eyes, I didn't particularly enjoy it's similarities to the house I used to live in as a child, but I couldn't make myself hate the house either, it looked nice, slightly worn down with the white paint which didn't exactly look white anymore, but it shared a homey feel to it I suppose, so I couldn't argue about whether I hated it or not, because to be honest, I didn't hate the house at all, just where it happened to be located; oh and the annoyingly over-white painted picket fence that surrounded it. 

My house wasn't that far from where I used to live, it was only in the next street; it broke my heart when I found someone else to be living there, I just couldn't imagine it really; so as we moved in here and unpacked everything I went outside and sat on the porch swing while I cried. 

But now I just feel numb again, I have for a while, I didn't make any friends in Tasmania, I never want too, so I wasn't thinking about anyone there, I was just looking at the orange leaves rustle on the tree just beside me; then I started to write, I don't know what exactly, anything that I could think of I put on the paper. 

Before too long I checked my phone and saw that it was already one in the afternoon, so I got up dusting myself off and picking the stray orange leaves from my hair; there wasn't much else to do; so I placed the book and the pen I was writing with by the tree and decided to walk around the neighbourhood. 

I cut across the main street to make my way to the park, there was an old and rusty set of swings, a graffitied slide and broken sea-saw. I sat down on one of the swings and pushed my legs back and forth to gain momentum, then I felt as though I was soaring through the air; I closed my eyes and let myself feel the wind rushing towards my face and running through my wild orange hair. Then after a while I stopped, and just sat on the swing twirling around on it and watching the chains twist and turn.

On my way back home, I was an idiot for not checking the road when I crossed it; all I heard were the squeal of brakes and the lasting blast of the car horn; then it was dark.