The controversial story

The following is a story I did in year 9 for English. Friends who were in that class that day know the full story, but the basic gist was that I wrote a story for an assignment in year 9, which was first submited as a draft to be editted by the teacher and given back to me. I edited it again, then gave it to my Grandma and kept re-writing it until it she was happy with it. I then re-edited it and re-submitted it as a final, polished copy.

It was at this point the crap hit the fan.

Bare in mind this, I had no love for the teacher. English is a subject I have always loved, so I put in many hours per assignment, but when she started assessing assignments based on their artistic qualities (something I'm not skilled at) rather than the literay skill, I went boonta. She single handedly nearly put me off english. In fact, it was only the encouragement of friends that inspired me to continue with the course.

So when a creative short story assignment arrived, I did it and enjoyed it. As I've said, many hours were put into it and a very polished final copy was presented to the teacher. What I didn't know at the time was that she had decided to extend the due date of the assignment, and that she had decided that she wanted students to hand up 2nd drafts if they had the time. Bare in mind she never said this to anyone in the class, she simply decided this on the due date. So, I hand up my assignment and sit back down, pleased as punch. I'd finished with time to spare for chatting with friends, editing their stories and continuing on new ones. It was at this point that the teacher called me up to the desk and decided to start re-editing IN FRONT OF ME. That was it. I lost it. Especially considering she was re-editing her edits and she had nearly re-written the first draft.

I had a hissy fit. I broke into hysterical sobs and just walked away. But, unlike a certain year 12 health teacher later, she showed respect and promised to mark the copy I handed up, and left me be so my friends could look after me. The incident became legend (many wished they did the same thing. When I got her the next year she respected me enough to accept my final copies without remarking them.) and the story faded into nothing. Until this post. This is the final copy. It is dark and depressive but I think its okay. Here it is.

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It was a simple day. Some might have described it as a beautiful day, with the sun floating like a golden daisy against the pale blue tissue paper that is the sky. But I have a few words for those people…… maybe I shouldn’t say them here or now. Those people are eloquent, and live in a fantasy world, not the real one.
I live in the real world.
Those people have jobs, families that are always eating dinner together, and never have fights.
My family was real.
Those people always get their own way, and wear clothes which fit, and know that when they wake up, the world will be complete. They won’t wake up in the gutter. They won’t experience the sensation of not having food for weeks.
They will wake to know someone loves them, that someone gives a damn.
That is not me.
I am real.

Trucks have always moved fast. They’re big, with tyres which are very unforgiving. I forget the girl who didn’t get out the way in time. She was, as I remember, new to this life. Her blond hair had not yet changed from it’s white gleam to a brown-black, from lots of nights without a wash, and sleeping on the bitumen. Her pale blue eyes were filled with a longing, for warmth and comfort, which could not be given. Her slight build made it almost impossible for the driver to see her lying there, in the way, before it was too late.
Not that he cared. It wasn’t his daughter who had run away from home, sleeping in the ally.
Did he see her? Would he have tried to stop if he had seen her?
Who knows?!?
The truck was from BI-LO. It’s yellow and red sides barely moved up, she was too small to even be considered a speed hump to this monster! After a while, you get tough. Feelings just, don’t exist. But things like that get you down in the dumps. The only thing that stops you from going at a truck like that with your little teeth, and scratching the side of this atrocity, is the cold comfort that, unlike your mouth after that debacle, she was sound asleep, and probably didn’t feel a thing.

I am sleeping with some people who, like me, are real. Others call us bums. My statement in all us bum’s defence is that, we were once like them. Our rags once fitted nicely on our bodies. In fact, I can’t say much about the others, mine were the hight of fashion. My rags consist of old denim jeans, which were, not now, a pale faded blue, with flares. Now the flares are ripped all around, and the colour now is something of a dark mud. The colour’s okay, but I liked them better before. Oh, I forgot! They had pale brown feathers skirting the bottom. They have, of course, long fallen off. I only have one rip in them so far.
I knew a girl who wore trakkies when she ran. She doesn’t have any pants at all, any more. My t-shirt was a beautiful thing. It was a aqua colour, which flowed like the waves, in swirls with a slightly greener colour. It’s in a better shape now, than my jumper. That, I just picked that up from somewhere. I don’t remember anything, or have anything from my life from before.
Wait! I have a locket! That’s all. It’s old and silver. The chain is linking swirls of gold and silver, and the locket itself is silver, with two doves flanking the love heart. It’s jammed shut, so I can’t see the photo’s from inside, but I know that something is there. Sometimes you just have that feeling.
But I was talking about my fellow real peoples. We are lying together near a fire. Old Joe started it out of a pizza box, so it won’t last long. We are all the old hands, the newbies normally don’t last the week.
Joe suddenly is yelling, “TRUCK!” We all move. The vehicle stops, and a man jumps out. I look him up and down. He is wearing clothes that are relatively worn out, crumpled as if he hadn’t changed for a few nights. His hair was brown, and shaggy. He had a week old stubble and his eyes were bloodshot. His eyes were like that girls, searching for something. For someone. Not just that, they looked alike!
“I need your help.” His voice sounded desperate. I creep back further. “Please!” He was sounding more and more desperate. “I’m looking for someone.” I step forward. “Please!” He mutters once more. He shuts his eyes a little. I hear a voice from the car. It’s a woman’s. “Come back Jim. She’s not here!” The voice reminds me of something. Before I can think what, it’s gone.
“I can help.” Why did I say that? They have people that love them, that they love. They have clothes that fit, and food to eat, and beds to sleep in. why do I care?!? “Who are you looking for?” My voice is harsh, from lack of speech.
“She’s about ten. I have been looking for three years, so she would be ten now. Ten and five months,” Jim was stumbling over his words.
“I need more than that!”
“She is a white blond, with blue eyes. She’s skinny normally, so she would be even thinner now,” Jim described a nightmare of mine.
“I can take you to her, but I warn you, you may not like what you see,” no Jim, you won’t.

I take Jim and his missus’ to the last place I saw her alive. “I last saw her here.”
“Where is she then? You said you would take us to her!” Jim’s missus was frantic.
“I last saw her here,” I repeat, “But I did move her.”
“What do you mean, you moved her?”
“She was hit by a BI-Lo supply truck.”
How can you say it? It’s extremely hard. Jim’s girlie starts to cry. Jim doesn’t look much better.
“The driver didn’t give a damn, but for some reason, I did. So I took her to the most beautiful place I could think of, to spend her eternal life.”
I move to take them there, then I realise that feeling I felt before, it was ……
home.

I take them to the rock. It’s a wondrous place, looking over the sea. Seagulls fly over above, and I’m filled with a sense of peace. I wonder, how would it be to float above the never ending waves, with the same pattern above you. It must be bliss to ride upon those silver wings, with the orange feet that only exist to catch a slimy, colourful, or dull, meal.
I show them the stone, and I wonder, is there such a place as hell? I think of the life I could have had. I just think about all the people that have never experienced what I have. To wake up is either a blessing or a curse, I have never worked that out, but at the moment, I don’t care. I am not suicidal, just carefree. As I stand on the stone, I think, will I go to heaven, if there is such a place, or will I have to live among this for the rest of my eternal life? I don’t think about much, but now I do.
My life flashes before me.
The time I was walking in the rain, looking up at that window of warmth, thinking is there a pompous billionaire in that window, his fat, red cheeks looking angrily in the opposite direction? Or is it a slight man working his wages for his family? Either way, they were dry, and I was wet. And if they were looking out of the window, what would they see? Would they see a bum out in the rain, wet and miserable? Or would they see a young girl, stranded, lost, looking for something, or someone, out in the rain? And would they see in her eyes a longing for a comfort that could not be filled?
I hope the latter with both.
I look at the girls’ parents, say good bye, and jump.
I feel the wings of freedom, and I am flying! I feel the embrace of the sky around me, then the coolness of the water, comforting me, lulling me to sleep.