December 1999
Jacob was angry, furious at the universe for putting him in this position again.
He wanted- needed- to do something angry, physical, violent.
He wanted to run until his lungs and throat burned and his legs turned to jelly.
Wanted to hear the loud crack of a bat striking a ball.
Wanted to pitch until his shoulder was on fire, and needed to hear the unmistakable angry thwap of a baseball smacking leather.
It frustrated him that he wouldn't be able to make a bat shatter or make the cowhide split at the seams and fly off of a ball, causing the windings to unravel, leaving nothing but a piece of cork behind- a small, unprotected bit of cork in the clay-colored dirt; he was only eleven and wasn't strong enough to give his anger the physical manifestation he felt was appropriate for when his world was being turned upside down again.
It isn't fair.
It isn't fair.
It isn't fair.
He chanted with every breath.
All he wanted was his father, and none of this was fair.
A/N: sorry but this'll remain cryptic until further vignettes are published