Scent of Desperation Pages 6-8

Bobby Pendragon's adventure through the flumes and sweet, gentle, music came to an end as I reached my stop. I slowly gather my things, my face turning redder than a cherry, trying to focus on anything but the looks shot at me. Walking down the isle of taunting feet, I could almost hear their squeaky voices going, "Watch your step!" and "Did you know fall was my favorite season?". I quietly, but painfully shuffle towards the end of my journey. Was it a colorful, the language of kids these days is unbearable.

I stepped off the bus and my eyes adjusted to the sun's brightness. It was so beautiful out, the were singing a cheery tune, the sun was shining. I could almost see it's bright teeth flashing as if it had heard a great joke, wide and natural was that smile.

Maybe I'll go for a walk, escaping my reality seemed like an enticing idea. Just go across the road and walk, it's not like she'd care. She might even be grateful. I take a step...nothing. Another. Then another and-

"Where do you think you're going?" Great. So much for three times the charm.

"Out." I begin to take another chance at temporary freedom with a new, brisk pace, but once again the remote is set on pause. I wanted to fight over that remote control.

"Oh, not you're not. Get in. Now." Stop. Eject. Maybe I'd watch that movie another time.

As I walk in I'm hit. Hit by a big truckload of rotting stench. My mom doesn't clean. I have to, but most nights I'm so sore I just... can't. I just have to lay on the floor after a daily scene to stay sane. I start to clean before a hurrican hurdles. It's not that bad, not like it usually is. Just a few wrappers, but what is that stench?

"What's that smell?" Choose your words carefully, Miranda.

"Oh." The women that gave birth to me let out a deep, gut wrenching burp before continuing. Classy. "I spilt some milk on that chair a few hours ago. You can clean it up." I look at my chair, the one that was covered in Toy Story but now sat with many stains...I think she does it on purpose. Didn't I tell you?

Throwing the wrappers away, I pick up my tattered school books and shuffle my glum self into my bedroom. My four- year- old room. I was obsessed with Barbie, Dora, any cartoon. My sheets were Dora, no kidding. Dora and Boots smile at me with their robotic eyes and exxagerated smile. As if there was anything to be happy about.

My mom walks in the room, her presence even makes Barbie's confident shoulders slouch. Oh, joy. I wait for the bomb to blow.