I've always pondered on deaths door, but he's never opened. I could care less about the hell and heaven shenanigans, but death. I want it. The end of my life.
I want to be in my suit, in my coffin, in the ground and my soul to be gone. I've been wa...
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I'm unable to breathe. I'm unable to move. I'm unable to think of anything other than last night. The body. The blood. It's constantly running through my mind.
I don't even know who he was. For all I know he was trying to get home to his wife and kids,when his car broke down so he tried flagging down for help. He could've been driving back home from college. He could've been running from cops. He could've been at Overdrive. He could've-
"It brings us great sadness to say that," I look up from my desk covered in doodles to our coach standing beside our principal as he struggles to gather his words. "Brett Foster... was driving home when his car broke down and a vehicle came too fast and he- he was struck by it." My heart stops. I killed my teammate.
My coach and principal continue talking about Brett and the tributes they'd like to do for him. All I can do is think about last night. I killed Brett Foster. I'm covered in his blood. I can feel it running down my body.
I stare down at my desk, my heart pounding out of my chest. Bile rises up and I bring the back of my wrist to my mouth to avoid throwing up. "You okay, man?" I hear Dylan whisper. I turn my head to him with a slight nod. "I'm feeling it too. What sick son of a bitch would hit and run?" Dylan asks which makes my stomach churn. Me. I'm the sick son of a bitch who would hit and run. "A psycho, that's who."
I watch my coach and principal exit the classroom which results in my teacher continuing his math lesson. My eyes go to Malika who chooses to pay attention to the class instead of listening to her friend Hannah talk about Brett.
My eyes travel all over the room every time I hear someone mention Brett's name, specifically a group of my teammates. They talk about catching the sicko who killed him, but little do they know... they're sitting in class with him. They should kill me. I deserve it.
My eyes drop down to the textbook in front of me and the scattered pages along the desk. The numerous numbers that I'm usually able to solve in seconds are slowly blurring away. I take off my glasses that I only wear when reading and watching TV before quickly wiping it with the inside of my blazer.
I place it back on the bridge of my nose, looking back at the page to see the formulas fading away. My pulse is beating at a concerning rate; my anxiety the culprit for my erratic heartbeat, not to mention the cause of my upchuck reflex abandoning me.
Blinking quickly, I try to stop my mind from tricking me. I squint, feeling a headache begin to form. The world around me caves in and my once clear vision with my frames becomes tunnelled.
I breath heavily while thinking about Brett and Neveah. Two different people. Died in the hands of the same person.
My shoulders tense up, my oxygen being cut off. Thus, I raise my hand which catches the teachers attention. "Yes, Mr. Duarte?" He asks. "Can I go to the bathroom?" He drops his head before he whispers a yes loud enough for me to hear from the back of the class.
