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A Short Story : A Story?

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Shaking, I stand up, trying to steady my body and my mind. I make my way across the lot back onto the street. I start towards my house once again. My knuckles stings as I knock on the door. I wince as my mom’s sunken eyes meet mine. “Mom, I-” my voice starts to break, but she cuts me off with a hug. I break down even more, crying again. My sobs come out weakly into her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mom.” “It’s okay, Sweetheart. It’s okay. It was a lot to take in, but everything will be fine.” She pushes me back by my shoulders and studies my red eyes. Her soft hands brush the back of my splotchy cheek, and I hold her hands with mine. Her eyes grow wide as she catches my dried blood-splattered knuckles. “Ricky! What’d you do?” her eyes grow to the size of tennis balls before I get to explain. “Nevermind. Just as long as you didn’t punch someone like this, then I’ll just clean you up. You didn’t, did you?” “No, Ma.” “Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.” After a blurry mixture of hydrogen peroxide, bandages, and apologies, I’m off to bed. My body feels dead and weak after today, but my head is still curious about everything that I’m yet to know. I’m really not who I thought I was, and it confuses me and kills me. By now, I’m too tired to contemplate that anymore. My eyes flutter shut, and everything turns black. The following morning starts on a brighter note. Technically anything could’ve been better than last night, but it still feels better. Determination and a new

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