Hi again. I hope you're having a wonderful day. For my third mission, I was asked to speak about a time I felt intense emotion. Whether it be happiness, sadness, anger, and etc. While reading this blog (a you'll know a little secret about me. Before I wrote my story, I was to read three readings What Is Creative Nonfiction By Lee Gutkind, Making Scenes In Memoir By Lee Martin, My Name Is Margaret By Maya Angelou Unfortunately, I wasn't able to read Maya Angelou's memoir because the website was acting strange, Lastly, I was suppose to draw comparisons to Maya Angelou's memoir but as I said, I couldn't read it. Based on what my professor had told me, there are some parts in Maya Angelou's story, where she is very angry. You'll find that within my story, I am angry at some points as well. I tried to link the readings for you. I apologize if it doesn't work, I'm new at this. In due time though, I will improve. Now, on with the story.
WHEN THE KILLER WITHIN GOT OUT I flew pass the security guard and rammed through the doors of the school. As the cold wind blew against my face, and sweat cover my skin, I thought, “Look what you made me do! Now I’ll have to be on the run all my life,”. I know that sounds purpostorious, but I’m fourteen years old. And I just committed attempted murder. Everything feels heightened as I try to get as far away from that school as possible. I can feel my heart pounding out of my chest, I feel like someone is watching me, and I can hear the leaves crunch beneath my feet. They crackle just like the heart of the person I harmed. I ran four blocks, “That should be far enough,” I thought to myself. A white car stopped in front of me before I could cross the street. My principle steps out of the vehicle. “I should make a run for it, or fight him,” I planned. But I couldn’t move, I was too distracted by the crying of her. The crying of the one I tried to kill. “Come on Bedouens, let’s go back to the school okay,” he said laying his hand on my shoulder. He slightly nudged me toward his vehicle but I was stiff, as stiff as the tinman without his oil. “So, what happened that made you leave school grounds Bedouens?” the principle asked. My soul began to throb as I cried. Cried like never before, I was drawing for breath, my throat hurts, and my eyes overflowed with tears. “I don’t know,” I replied. I didn’t want to revisit what I did. I still didn’t believe what just happened, so I kept quiet throughout the ride, just focusing on the outside. I stopped crying, I was distracted by the houses, the quietness of the neighborhood, the dead leaves littered on the sidewalk and grass. Maybe signifying the day I died inside. We reached the school and I noticed she had stopped crying as well. She got out of the car in silence and left. The principle told me to hold on, giving her some time to get in her car and leave. She didn’t just physically leave that November thirteenth day, she left me, all alone. But it’s my fought, I pushed the only person who cared about me away, the only person I would call mother. But she wasn’t my mother, she was my vision teacher. “Alright you can step out now,” the principle urged. I stepped out and headed for the school. For the first time, I felt oddly a calmness. It’s like I was walking down death row, accepting what’s about to occur. The principle walks beside me, putting his hand on my right shoulder while walking on my left. He didn’t trust me, he didn’t know if I’d run away again. I thought to myself. We entered the school, and I felt a weight upon me. Everyone was staring at me. The teacher’s passing by, the students in the hallway, and the guard I ran past before. It was like everyone already knew what I did, and they were disgusted with me. The principle, still controlling me like a puppet, nudged me to the office. He sat me down at a desk, and sat on the other side. “So, what happened that made you leave the premises Bedouens?” he asked again. I ignored him. Instead I listened to the lively sounds of children outside, I listened to the idling engines of the buses. “Bus one twenty seven, my bus is waiting for me. What will they tell him,” I thought. “Bedouens I need to know what happened. So I can tell your mother why you might not be coming home today,” the principle expressed. I looked at him with gleaming eyes. “I’m not going home today?” I asked him. “I won’t know until you tell me what happened,” he replied. “I don’t want to go home,” I said. The principle found his target and leaned in. “Why don’t you want to go home?” he questioned. Heat ran through my body. “Because, I want to escape,” I answered. I could feel him looking at me as if he had stumbled upon treasure. “Escape what?” he persisted. “If there’s a way for me not to go back home. I’ll take that way. I want to escape my mom,” I expressed. The principle folded his arms. “Why do you want to escape from your mom? Did she do something to you?” questioned the principle. I felt the need to share how I felt inside with him, he cared about the students at Drexel Hill Middle School. But I don’t trust anyone anymore, only Mrs. Julia. “I just hate my mom, that’s all,” I responded. The principle leaned forward in his chair. “So what happened with Mrs. Julia. She told me that you were acting a bit strange and that she felt a sharp pain at her stomach before you ran out?” he explained. I started to cry again, shaking. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I thought I stopped myself before I could,” I yelped. The principle grabbed some tissues. “Bedouens here’s some tissues. Please tell me what happened, I don’t like seeing you like this,” he said. I wiped my tears but to no avail. This may sound fictional, but there’s a monster inside me. And on that horrid day, I lost control of it. “She was reading me my grades for braille. When, I felt an urge to hurt her. But I fought it off. The urge came back though, came back stronger. And again, I fought it off. But I didn’t notice that each time the urges came, I got closer to the knife in my bookbag. The urge came a third time, and I pulled out the nife and tried to stab Mrs. Julia. But when the third urge came, I was gone. All I felt was an emptiness. It felt like cold wind blowing through a whole. I thought I stopped myself though. I thought I pulled myself out of that feeling some how. Your saying I actually stabbed her,” I cried. The principle looked upset. “Bedouens, you’re an A student. We love you here at DHMS, why did you have to go and do something like that?” he said sort of like he was hurt. I cried even louder. ‘'Because I hate my mom. And Mrs. Julia was like a school mother to me. So I guess I let my anger out on her,” I wept. But that was a cop out. The real reason why is because Mrs. Julia was a beautiful woman. I may have not understood it at the time, but deep inside I knew I was sadistic. I wanted to hurt her, I wanted to make her scream, I wanted to feel her blood on my hands. But I didn’t want to believe it at that time. Yes my aunt made me this way but it’s just as much my fought as it is hers. But at fourteen, I couldn’t believe believe that I wanted to hurt Mrs. Julia. I thought some demon controlled me, but it’s me, I’m the demon. I couldn’t understand because how could I hurt someone I loved, someone who loved me. Maybe because I was harmed by the person who said they love me too. The principle took a deep breath. “So where’s the weapon?” he asked. My head was down, the guilt was too heavy. “In the room we were doing braille lessons in. It’s in my bookbag,” I confessed. The principle turned to his secretary. “Can you go check his bookbag please,” he said unhappily. The secretary left the office. He looked back at me. “Bedouens, stay here. I have to go make a quick phone call,” he told me. I sat and waited, disgusted with myself. But deep inside, now that I’m all alone, I regretted not killing her, not hearing her scream. And I knew that and was repawled. He came back almost looking saddened. “You won’t be going home today,” he ensured. A few seconds later, an officer came into the office. “Bedouens Philistin, please put your hands behind your back,” the officer said. Maybe it was the shock, because I couldn’t believe I was getting arrested. I was a good kid, the perfect child. That’s the way I was raised to be, but here I am getting arrested. When the officer started moving me out of the office, I said by to everyone there. “Bye guys. I’ll see you on Monday,” I said unknowing “By Bedouens,” they responded. Back to the hallways, everyone was stearing. I could feel there judgemental eyes. I felt like I knew what they were thinjking, because even though it made sense, I thought the same thing. How could this nice, A student kid going to jail. The seriousness of the situation struck when I sat in the back of a police car. “I’ve never been arrested before. Are you taking me to jail?” I asked a bit curious. There was a cage like thing that separated the front of the car from the back. “No, later tonight you’ll be going to a juvenile detention home,” the officer answered. “What’s that,” I asked. The handcuffs were sinking into my risks everytime we hit a bump. “It’s like jail but for non adults,” the officer explained. “Anyway, why did I have to arrest you? You seem like a nice kid,” he said. I looked outside, feeling a little sad. I thought I was going to jail forever, I thought I’d never see the houses, stores, and trees we were passing again. “I did something very bad. Something I’ll never forgive myself for,” I replied. It was quiet for a second. “Well don’t hold a grudge against yourself kid. Hopefully you just learn a lesson from all this,” the officer advised. We arrived at the police station. The officer stepped out of the car and opened my door.then scared “Can you step out okay?” he asked. I don’t know why but I was more curious then scared. I think that was my mind trying to forget this whole ordeal. “Yes, I can,” I answered him. It wasn’t easy with handcuffs on, but I got out of the car. The officer grabbed me by the risks and guided me toward the police station. When we entered, they sat me down in a small room. They told me to take off my belt, and the laces off my shoes. After doing so, they left me alone and had someone watch me from outside. I had a lot of time to think about what I did. When I went to Lyma, a juvenile detention home, I left the police station hating myself and even hating my mother more. THE END
3 Comments
Sharea W.
9/17/2019 07:20:40 am
Your description in this is great it really dragged me in
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Sabatino
9/18/2019 11:27:54 am
This story provides description, action, and themes of anger and regret. Let's talk more about this story in person. Sound good?
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Bedouens Philistin
9/18/2019 03:05:49 pm
In the few weeks that have passed, I was a bit nervous to tell my story. But, in the end, I'm an entertainer. And my life is an entertaining one. So, I'd love to speak about this story in person:) Thank you so much.
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bEDOUENS PHILISTINMy stage name is t.m chozen. It stands for the messenger chozen. And to the world, my stage, boy do I have a message for you. Archives
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