Shand2
Kamaile Shand
Mrs. Villareal
English 1, period 5 13
20 October 2013 (tribute to Ed Sheeran and Mikill Pane)
A silence coats him like a warm, red, blanket. This fills you with terror, making your knees tremble slightly and your breath high pitch.. His massive frame takes up what little room that the old, cold, broken apartment provides. The soulless pits of his bottomless black eyes follow you as you stumble back. You both hear your tattered brown and pea green handbags crash to the floor. Despite the mess of crumpled dollar bills, tubes of peach and strawberry lip balm, loose leaf papers, and small black journals, there is only one thing that has caught his eye. He curls his heavy calloused hands into fists. The muscles in his biceps tense up. His spine goes rigid like a ramrod, snapping into an upright position, making him taller then he already was. He slowly lifts his eyes and you see his face turning a reddish purple color, his eyes going bloodshot, and the veins in his temple and neck bulging. Sweat trickles down his hairline, pooling on the collar of his new black polo shirt. A muscle in his jaw jumps from him grinding his teeth in rage. A soft wheezing sound escapes his pale, thick lips as he tries to, but unsuccessfully, reign in his emotions. His entire being trembles with anger as he raises his hard hand up, and in one swift and deadly motion, strikes. As you fall to the ground, you snag the cord of the delicate, glass stained lamp he gave to you as gift. It shatters into a million tiny shards of reds, blues, yellows, greens, and purples on the cheap, worn, wooden floor, creating an array of colors morphing into each other as the dim, florescent lights from the fan on the ceiling with water stains bounce off of the sharp, jagged, glass. He slowly reaches his full height, all six feet ten inches of him, when you don't get up. His eyes, once again, find the small, folded, square piece of colorful paper that has caused so much trouble. Bending down, he picks up the flimsy piece, takes out his lighter, and lets the flame catch the edge of the it. He smooths his shirt and slowly, seeming almost as if in pain, strides out the door. On the floor, your birthday card for your 13th birthday, withers away.