Flash Fiction to Block my Yelling

Quitter

It hurts.

Lungs burning, legs trying to make you stop. Your mind runs alongside your body yelling, not words of encouragement -no that would be too simple-, but words of warning.

-You can't breathe, you're going to die, and tumble down, and fry up in the sun-

And you don't want to keep going, and you try to slow, contemplating on calling your mom for a ride home that's never going to happen, but a rickety old van is trying to turn, and you're put on a crossroads. You now have two impossible options: Speed up and get out of the way, use all that you have left and then call your mom to only have her refuse or be impolite, walk across, make them wait, walk home, and no need to beg on your knees to get back.

But your mama didn't raise a quitter -no you became that on your own-, and even if not all her hard work stuck, she didn't raise a savage, so you put in that last bit of energy and sprint across the street.

And while you have convinced yourself you're not going to make it, you brain tries to register a yell. That rickety old white van with a blue envelope on the side, holds an even older man who is now cheering you on.

Your brain shuts up.

Pouring that last bit of what have you, you sprint across and your hand slaps his, and you've won. You've crossed, you made it. And the man turns and you walk home.

Your mama didn't raise quitter.