Descriptive Essay - Original Writing

I sat in our freezing basement. Goosebumps layered my body and I began to shake. A light lit up the dark room and I listened to the footsteps walking down the steep stairs.

Sometimes I wounder what love is. Sometimes I wounder if I will ever feel the emotion, or if the emotion is a figment of peoples imaginations. Like some kind of god, you wish him to be up in heaven with his angels so badly that you see unicorns where there are meerly horses. Of coarse, who am I to judge what others think to be true, because if you want it bad enough, your mind may trick you, and who is to say that that is less real than the fact that the sky is blue or that my hair is blond? No one.

Taken, stolen, kidnapped. All words for the situation I am in. I was taken from my home 2 days ago. I woke up in a trunk confused and had a hard time breathing. I could hear noises from all around and I was scared. I was so hot and I was positive that I had been sweating through all of my clothes. The next thing I heard was terrifying, somebody was trying to get into the trunk. I could hear whoever it was grunting, it appeared that they were struggling. Maybe they didn’t have a key? Once the man had opened the trunk I just laid there. There was nothing I could do. I was weak and tired, so I didn’t want to fight back.

As I scan the never ending line of trailers, my grandmother’s stands out. Faded metal siding clinging to the unevenly pitched roof, grass struggling to grow under the shade of the rotting oak tree, the hot water heater rusting in the back, all speak to the age of the tin box she calls her home. I never see it as a home; to me it is a house I dread entering. The yard surrounding the trailer holds few memories, as little time is ever spent outside. On four sunken craters on her driveway, an old Ford Taurus sits, slowly seeping into the asphalt from its weight, revealing how little its owner moves.

When my parents decided I had become old enough to safely wield a pole with a small but hurtful hooked object on a string, I began fishing. At first I only wanted to fish because I was not allowed to, but after I tried it for the first time I became fascinated with the mechanics. With our small, skinny, breakable-looking poles, we could pull mysterious, flopping beasts out of the water that would otherwise swim beneath the surface, undetectable. During the fall and winter months, my father, my sister, and I would frequently take our fishing poles down to the creek behind our house in hope of catching salmon and any other wondrous kinds of fish that frequented the cool waters.

‘- it was we who did the dispossessing, took traditional lands and destroyed traditional ways of life-’

This was perfect I was at my old high school talking to my crush Lisa Benfield, she was laughing at the funny joke I told her and Jase was their trying hard to get Lisa 's attion but I had it all. I was wearing my varsity jacket with the number one on it and my name as I was walking Lisa to class I saw out the corner of my Jase crying like a little baby and then it happened I was going to ask Lisa to the prom.

Hurrying over to the creek with a can of corn, my father’s friend, Steve, my dad, and myself all had a tiny pole in our hands. Every time one of us dunked our corn-on-a-hook, a creek chub would snap snap snap at it, and we’d have another piece of bait for the real fishing journey. After we snagged enough creek chubs, we headed to the Illinois river.

Later that night, I was behind the wheel of my G-Wagon with Melissa in the passenger seat. She didn’t feel like driving since she was on the road all day and I understood so I didn’t mind when she asked me to. I had been tight-lipped. She kept eyeballing me as if she detected that something was bothering me but I just kept singing to my India Arie as if I was carefree.

I used to be normal. I used to have friends and people who cared about me. I used to think I was safe in my mother’s arms. That I could grow up to be the person everyone would admire. But those days are gone. Not a single soul in the world could give a damn about me. Every day I am tormented and abused, and I take it all in because I deserve it. Every day I think of running away, leaving my wretched soul behind. Every day I want to kill myself, but I can never bring myself to. Every day I am an outcast to society, an abomination. Every day that goes by, I am still gay. And I can’t change who I am.

There are times when people come across an object that holds a sentimental value and want to keep it close to their heart or in other instances, store it somewhere safe. Though my possession isn 't exactly an object you can hold or put away for safekeeping, but rather a place that allows family and friends to gather and dwell upon its most glorious days. A place everyone is perpetually invited and accepted for who they are. This home, I gratefully inherited from my grandparents, has become a shelter for those those in need, serves as a financial asset, and offers fond memories.

I don’t know how I got to where I am, but I’m here now, and I have to win if I want to live. I am in a game, and in order to live, I have to escape. That’s the thing, though: I don’t know how to escape. I was running for my life around this old house that looked like it came straight out of a horror movie. I doubled over and held my head in pain as I saw the static, which meant it was coming. I was being chased by what looked like a person but in no way acted like one. Just as it was about to appear, I saw a box underneath a table, in a room that looked like the living room. I quickly grabbed the box and, as it appeared, I slammed my fist down on the button on top of the box. As a large plume of smoke erupted from the box, I figured I had a chance to run. I took this chance to run back to where my friends were, though when I got there, all that happened was my friends and I crouching over in pain, holding our heads again. This time there wasn’t anything I could use to escape. Now I was curled up on the floor waiting for this thing to eat me, as it was kneeling over my trembling body. I saw a glowing green necklace around his neck , and I thought that this was my ticket to escape. I grabbed the necklace, brought my leg up and kicked it’s torso as hard as I could. I held the necklace, grabbed my friends and somehow teleported out and back to the military base where we worked.

Thud. Slamming my head on the table I aimed yet another piece of crumpled paper towards the bin. Naturally, it misses, adding to the pile of miscellaneous paper waste. A pained sigh escaped my lips as I resigned myself to picking up my pen. Tapping some unknown rhythm on the desk, I tried to make sense of my thoughts. The bite marks on my pen lid pressed hard groves into my tired fingers, a simple reminder of reality. I needed some sort of inspiration. Another drawn out sigh as I decided that I couldn’t bare the table’s mahogany damnation any longer. My chair screeched along the hardwood floor and I clicked my pen to cast it away. A wistful glace to the window told me that the moon was yet to rear its head. It was still safe to go out.

It was a crisp morning in the first week of June, 2014. With her step-mom and father, Oriana and I got into the car at four o’clock in the morning and set out for the Eppley Airfield in Nebraska. The lengthy drive was masked by exotic dreams of Europe as Oriana and I slept soundly in the backseat of their champagne Cadillac. Before we knew it, the sun was creeping up from behind the scenery, eloquently painting the sky with vibrant tones of red, orange, and purple.

"I left" echoed in my head, rousing me from sleep. A loud buzzing overtook my ears like a hive of bees churning. It sounded so close. It was 8:00 in the morning and auditions began at 10:00. I slipped on a pair of dark denim jeans and a navy halter top.