As sunlight slowly creeped in the room, he looked around. There wasn't a lot to look at, but he knew it was a lot more than some people had. he looked at his watch, it wasn't ticking. He somewhat knew it wouldnt be. The battery must have been dead for a week now. But it didn't bother him. he just enjoyed the thought of owning a watch. He looked at the screen on his computer. The half page of text bugged him. he was writing a story. It seemed that he had come to the ending, only he hated the ending. It never seemed right. How was it that the good guy always got the girl? The bad guy was always killed, or jailed. His story was different, he knew from the start he wanted it to be as realistic as possible. he got up and went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk. He opened the carton and looked inside. He grunted, then lifted the carton to his nose and smelled it. it seemed ok, so he placed it to his mouth and took a small sip to sample the milk. He could tell from the slightly odd taste it had seen its days in the fridge. He quickly downed it, but crunched his face together and stared at the carton as if it had just stolen his favorite bike. He closed the door on the refrigerator and through his empty carton in the trash, on his slow walk back to his desk. He sat down and stared at the screen again. A thought occurred to him, what if his story ended with the good guy dieing from the bad guy putting rotten milk into the good guys fridge? He began to chuckle, now that would be a hell of a story. He looked out of his window and out onto the street. He lived in a poor community. The street was filled with rundown and shot up houses. The gang violence on his street alone made the hood look like a cozy place to live. He looked around his apartment. How did he end up at a place like this? He never did drugs. Finished high school with a 4.0 and had most likely to succeed in his class of almost a thousand students. If it werent for his love of writing stories, he could of made something of himself. But his teachers and family all said they believed that his books could make it big. They pushed him and pushed him to wright until he became obsessed with the work. It controlled everything he did. He would think of an idea and instantly begin writing over it. he wrote over a thousand short stories and ten novels in his time. But it seemed every time he would try to publish one of his storys, someone stole it and called it their own. "the way life is" he thought. He smiled as he figured out the name to the story he was writing. It was one of the best he could think of. He went to his computer and typed the name in the file slot. Naming all five hundred and twenty three pages in the folder as such. He closed the program and decided to go for a small walk. He shut down his computer and grabbed his key. "fresh air does the body good" he told himself. He shut and locked the door behind him as he walked out of his apartment. He walked with his head down watching the concrete pavement pass him by. The fresh summer air rushed by him and filled him with energy. It wasent hot, or even chilly. It was beautifully cool, it made him seem a little light headed even. "hah, im getting high off of air." He remarked. He chuckled and continued to tell himself how funny his joke was. Cars passed him by as he walked, they began to seem regular. Almost as if they were sent at precise times. He stopped walking and watched a careful of teenagers pass him by. He missed those days. Being care free and only worrying about the next time he got to see his friends. He looked back down and began to walk again. Reminiscing of times when he was younger. He heard a car that was passing slowly come to a stop. He paid it no mind and continued to walk by. As he passed the car an old and fragile voice called out to him. "hey there son, could you do me a favor?" he stopped walking and turned to see the car that had stopped. It was an older model car and there was an old man in the drivers seat beckoning him to come closer. He had never seen this man before. He figured he must have been lost. He jogged to the car, "can I help you sir?" he asked as kindly as he could. The old man stared at him for some time before responding.
"I cant find my house" the old man simply said.
"well. Do you know what your address is?"
"I cant remember."
"well. Do you know where you are now?"
"I think I'm in Washington"
He stared at the man for some time. "Washington?" he asked the man.
"this is Washington right?"
He could only stare in shock, "sir this is Columbia, your not even in the right country."
The old man seemed confused. "How did I get here?"
He looked at the man and smiled, "I'm not sure, but ill get you home. Don't worry about it" he felt like he was in one of his books. About to start an adventure to help someone and earn the respect of the people. He walked around to the passenger seat and hopped into the car. "ok. One step at a time, where are you from?" he asked the old man.
"I'm from Washington state, I'm not sure how I wound up in Brittan"
He looked at the man, "are you ok to drive sir?" he became very concerned.
"oh ill be fine, I just have to find my house. I seem to have lost it"
He looked at the old man and knew that he needed to contact the police, or someone in charge. To have him sent back to, where ever it is this guy came from. He got out of the car. "how about we walk?" he asked.
The old man looked at him for a time. "I guess. If we have to" he worked his way out of the car.
"OK the-" his sentence was cut short as shots rang out intended for the house he was standing in front of. Instead, they hit both him and the old man. He hit the ground hard and laid there sprawled out on the ground as the car sped off. He looked on the ground and saw his blood pouring onto the pavement. He knew that he was in shock and that he was most likely going to die. He began to panic, screaming for help. This wasn't how he was supposed to die, he was supposed to die from a long life. Like the old man. Making mistakes and living his life out to the fullest. He looked at his wounds and saw atleast five exit wounds. People survive this, right? He screamed again but this caused blood to shoot up into his mouth, chokeing him. he coughed and spit the blood out. "I cant die like this" he kept telling himself. He began to feel cold, this was far to typical. Why did HE have to die? Why couldent he have just stayed home? Why? Why? Why? He, looked around and saw people gathering around him, some screaming and others shouting orders. He felt the blood shoot up into his mouth again. He coughed and a large amount of blood came out. He felt strange almost numb. He moved his mouth but nothing happened. He began to cry. This is the end of my story, he thought to himself. He felt a cough rise but he didn't have the strength to cough. He shook violently on the ground. And turned his head to see the lights coming his way. He slowly closed his eyes, "the way life is."
