Sarah

As we drive on the terribly ever turning troublingly bumpy road, I can’t help but wonder why did this have to happen? I feel like a bird trapped in a cage, or more of a circus animal being whipped and beaten to do tricks. However, instead of a cracking whip as my torture, I have a trumpet. Forced to play the wretched instrument is the torturous event that I must endure until I am an adult, or I run away of course. I have tried, but the aftermath is terrible and enforced on every member of my family, and they enjoy the ear piercing noise that tears through the air like an airplane about to crash. Hours and hours of practice, and if I ditch, even more of this unimaginably cruel punishment, I have no way out. My parents are well aware of the fact that I despise playing instruments; however they insist that I am almost a prodigy. We are embarking on a long journey to go to a convention of sorts for young musicians. I could kill myself, why must I endure this agony?!

Staring out the window I realize that our incredibly old car has stopped. My brother is asleep in his seat, and he is not fazed by not moving along the dangerous road. My mother gets out of the car, and I do the same. Curling black-gray smoke escapes from the hood of the car, I turn away as the smell stings my eyes. I decide to take a short walk as it will inevitably be hours until a tow truck can find us in the maze known as a road. Before I know it I am completely surrounded by trees and have absolutely no idea where I am. My tracks are covered by falling snow. Was it snowing before? I have no idea but I shiver, my fingers become numb and I regret taking a walk. Things become slightly foggy, as if I were in a dream, the forest changing as I walk. I lay my hand on a tree; the tree immediately disappears with my touch, as if it were never there. The normal sounds of the forest are absent as well, everything is silent, almost a silence too creepy to bear.

*             *             *

                I must have really lost track of time as I was walking because I see that it is already seven o’clock. Treading carefully, I make my way through the green, moss covered forest. But wasn’t it snowing? How can the billions of small flakes, seem to disappear without my knowledge? Is it possible that I was simply dreaming, or hoping that time would pass. Was I going mad? Did I hit my head, causing a lapse in judgment of logical events? No, I must have been hallucinating from my dehydration. Yes that is the only logical explanation.

The woods seem to be rather different, as if I was teleported from one point to another, unaware of this impressive feat, but unable to go back to my original location. It is official; I’m lost. I still aimlessly stroll through this beautifully natural forest. As if a gift from Mother Nature the forest is pristine, and amazingly untouched by man. I can hear all the sounds a forest should possess. The chatter of the squirrel, the singing of birds, and even the chirping of crickets, the sounds of this forest draw me closer to its center. The sky is a bright orange, but toward the east the sun is a dark blue, close to the dark of night, but not quite. The sky holds many mysteries, looking at the sky makes me feel insignificant. I am really, if you think of the size of the universe, the population, or even just my city’s population. I am just an insignificant dot of ink on a paper in a world full of other more interesting things. No need to linger on the whereabouts of a young trumpet player. Don’t waste your time with someone as small and unimportant as me. I sit on a fallen tree with little moss on the surface to rest and gather my thoughts. Where am I? Anywhere is fine as long as I’m not playing the trumpet. I hate playing instruments, truly, I despise this whole art. I will never have an end to my relentless torture of playing the trumpet. How will playing an instrument help my career as a detective? It won’t, I have no use for this skill. Who cares if I am supposedly a prodigy, I want to get away from a life on the cover of magazines as “The Toddler with a Trumpet” or “Professional Penny: The life as a Prodigy”.