Regrets
"Pulitzer may crack the whip, but he won't whip us," the whispered words passed by the teenager's chapped lips. When these words had first left his mouth, they had been spoken with enthusiasm, and he had believed what he'd said. This time, however, the usual sparkle had disappeared from his dark eyes, only to be replaced with a look of defeat. This time, he only held disbelief in his words.
"It didn't woik..." He muttered, glancing in the mirror at his reflection. In the mirror, he could see the dark circles under his eyes, which were plain and dull. His clothes were baggier than usual on him - he'd lost a lot of weight.
It was just too much, just too much. They'd lost the strike, he had run out of money though he wouldn't admit that to his friends, and he wouldn't allow Kloppman to wave his lodging fee aside any longer. He was a failure, just as his father used to yell in his ear. Failure, failure... failure.
Gulping, he raised the razor to his left wrist. Taking in one last breath of courage, the razor was slashed brutally against the tender flesh of his left wrist.
Shakingly taking the razor into his left hand, he repeated his fatal actions on his right wrist, and closed his eyes, waiting. Feeling the pain turn to a numb cold, the blade slipped from his fingers, slickened with his own blood, to the floor with a clatter, breaking into the silence.
His numbed trance interrupted, his dark eyes snapped open, and he instantly realized his actions. "What the 'ell 'ave I done?" - his mouth formed the words, but no audible sound came out, only a strangled cry. The boy wobbled where he stood, and staggered over to his bunk bed.
"I'll get in bed... and I'll wake up - this was all a bad dream... a nightmare."
His tracks printed by a sticky red substance, he climbed staggeringly into the bed, and he closed his eyes, waiting to wake up from this hell.
As his breaths became uneven, the young man realized that maybe he wasn't being haunted by another nightmare... maybe this was a harsh reality.
His eyes snapped open as he came to this realization, just in time to take his last breath. His eyes wide and full of fear, he became still.
And so ended the life of Anthony "Racetrack" Higgins.
"Pulitzer may crack the whip, but he won't whip us," the whispered words passed by the teenager's chapped lips. When these words had first left his mouth, they had been spoken with enthusiasm, and he had believed what he'd said. This time, however, the usual sparkle had disappeared from his dark eyes, only to be replaced with a look of defeat. This time, he only held disbelief in his words.
"It didn't woik..." He muttered, glancing in the mirror at his reflection. In the mirror, he could see the dark circles under his eyes, which were plain and dull. His clothes were baggier than usual on him - he'd lost a lot of weight.
It was just too much, just too much. They'd lost the strike, he had run out of money though he wouldn't admit that to his friends, and he wouldn't allow Kloppman to wave his lodging fee aside any longer. He was a failure, just as his father used to yell in his ear. Failure, failure... failure.
Gulping, he raised the razor to his left wrist. Taking in one last breath of courage, the razor was slashed brutally against the tender flesh of his left wrist.
Shakingly taking the razor into his left hand, he repeated his fatal actions on his right wrist, and closed his eyes, waiting. Feeling the pain turn to a numb cold, the blade slipped from his fingers, slickened with his own blood, to the floor with a clatter, breaking into the silence.
His numbed trance interrupted, his dark eyes snapped open, and he instantly realized his actions. "What the 'ell 'ave I done?" - his mouth formed the words, but no audible sound came out, only a strangled cry. The boy wobbled where he stood, and staggered over to his bunk bed.
"I'll get in bed... and I'll wake up - this was all a bad dream... a nightmare."
His tracks printed by a sticky red substance, he climbed staggeringly into the bed, and he closed his eyes, waiting to wake up from this hell.
As his breaths became uneven, the young man realized that maybe he wasn't being haunted by another nightmare... maybe this was a harsh reality.
His eyes snapped open as he came to this realization, just in time to take his last breath. His eyes wide and full of fear, he became still.
And so ended the life of Anthony "Racetrack" Higgins.