I wrote this as a sample kind of thing for my creative writing class. Let me know any little thing you dislike about it; I've got a tough skin. Thanks in advance!
Casey
P.S. Some of the thoughts in here are italicized...it just doesn't show when I copy and paste it.
Working the early morning shift at a 24-hour convenience store, Denis sees three types of people: The worry-wart parents who spring down every aisle in a tizzy, knocking anything off the shelves that promises to get their kid to stop crying, the stiff businessmen stopping by to pick up this or that before heading off to work too early, and the thugs. The parents leave messes to clean up, and the businessmen leave Denis reflecting on his life in a rather negative manner, but it’s the thugs that cause the trouble. They saunter on in, long before the first signs of daylight, after a night that was no doubt full of illegal activities. Some come for drugs, others for smokes; some pay, others try to get away with shoplifting. And others are driven by an entirely different addiction, an addiction to the adrenaline that pumps through their veins when they take something, anything, that doesn’t belong to them.
But they’re all are bad.
Around five in the morning, the bells on the front door tinkle as it opens, and Denis lifts his head from his game of solitaire to assess the customer. This is just what I need, he thinks bitterly. Straightening up on his stool and crossing his arms, Denis scowls at the up-to-no-good Thug. The kid looks over at him and smirks, taunting him.
If the boy’s dark skin doesn’t identify him as a hooligan, his clothes are a dead giveaway. They’re typical of a Type Three, several sizes too large and displaying an array of obnoxious logos. These detestable modern styles never fail to make Denis grit his teeth. Is it so hard to wear a belt? Where is the sensibility in drooping trousers?
About three years back a building just around the corner had burnt down. One hoodlum tried to flee the building down a fire escape, but he had tripped on his baggy pants to his death. Each and every one of these boys deserved the same fate.
The Thug’s shoes are torn, duct-taped, and much too small. What is this, the new style? It’s positively nonsensical! Shame on his parents for letting him out of the door like that. They should buy the boy a functional pair of shoes, rather than letting him walk around looking like trash.
Denis watches him with wary eyes as he swaggers up and down each aisle like a lion sniffing out its prey. He cranes his neck to keep The Thug in view, but he disappears into the back of the store, right by the drug aisle. Of course he does. Denis could have predicted that.
Denis tramps over to the back section, ready to catch The Thug in the act. There should be a security guard to deal with this kind of nonsense. He isn’t paid enough for this job. This convenience store is possibly his least favorite place on Earth, always some debacle to deal with. Then again, it’s the same way at home…But Denis is going to catch this one. He may not have been able to stop any of the others because they were faster, and stronger, and younger than him, but nothing can stop him from tackling this Thug to the ground. This one unlucky boy is the straw that breaks the camel’s back.
Denis huffs and he puffs and he turns the corner to the drug aisle, but no one is there. He juts out his lower jaw. This boy, this hoodlum, this trash, this thug thinks he can pull one over on me? No. Not this time.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a dark figure scurrying towards the door. The shape of a small square box shows in his jeans’ pocket. Denis knew it was some over-the-counter medication. He is predictable, just like the rest of them. A druggie, an addict. Worthless.
“You – stop!” Denis howls. It’s a straight way to where the boy stands, frozen and doe-eyed. Denis runs using every bit of strength his old body still held, aiming to plow right into the Thug. He channels all of the anger he’s ever felt into this movement, and he is moving faster, and feeling freer, than he has in thirty years.
The Thug doesn’t move a muscle. That is, until Denis was a fraction of a second away. In a swift movement, he moves to the side and allows Denis to run straight into the wall. He falls to the ground, and the glass shelves that were formerly mounted on the wall shatter and crash down on top of him, along with their contents. A large, sharp shard of glass pierces his forehead.
The blood trickles warmly down his cheek; he can feel the blood, but not the actual injuries. There is no pain, only pressure. The crushing pressure keeps his weak limbs pinned to the ground. Denis’ dizzy head swarms with broken thoughts.
That Thug. That Thug, I’ll kill him. I will. Malicious boy – deserves to die. Look at what he’s done to me. That Thug. That hateful Th –
The place where Dean lives isn’t far away from a big convenience store that’s open 24/7. This is convenient because he needs to be back before Marty wakes up. He knows what he needs to get and he knows he doesn’t have the money to pay for it. He can barely afford groceries and he’s living in the remains of a burnt down building; his budget doesn’t exactly allow for leisurely spending. But what he needs to get from the store today is different. So he’ll get it, money or no money.
Dean tries to avoid shoplifting because it wrecks havoc on his conscience, but sometimes there just isn’t any way around it. He’s smart with money and knows how to really stretch a dollar, but sometimes there just isn’t a dollar to stretch.
The old, too-small sneakers on Dean’s feet make them ache. They’re proof that he doesn’t have a spare penny. When he was mugged last week, he lost his good shoes and all the money he had managed to save over the past few months. And some of that money was meant to go to the thing he needed to buy. Now he’s stuck with sore toes and the necessity of stealing.
Ugh, stealing. What an ugly word. It has such a cold feel on the tongue. Dean didn’t want to be “that guy” – the one who’d been turned jaded by the difficulties of survival. He wouldn’t have been, if only his parents were still alive. It’s been three years since they died in the fire that turned their home into a blackened memory.
When Dean was young, he used to lie in bed at night and imagine what he would do if a tragedy, such as a fire, was to strike. In his imagination, he was the hero who saved his whole family – his mom, his dad, his one-year-old brother, and even his dog.
When the apartment building really set on fire, he only managed to save himself.
Things typically don’t go the way we plan them in our heads.
It only took Dean five minutes to get to the store. He found himself biting his nails thinking about what he was going to do. He would go inside and try not to be seen. He would get what he needed and leave. In and out. No problem.
Dean flinches as the bells on the door announced his arrival. He tries to make his walk nonchalant; one foot in front of the other. No need to panic.
Panic. The man at the register is eyeing him suspiciously. Dean gives him a nervous smile and shuffles the other way. His pulse doubles with every aisle he walks down that doesn’t have what he needs. Every minute he spends in this place, another fingernail is chewed to the skin.
Food, no. Hair care, no. Beauty products, no. Cards, no. Drugs, no. Toys, yes, toys. Alright here we are. The first toy car that touches his hand goes into his pocket. Time to get out of here. He heads towards the door and relief is just starting to wash over him.
“You – stop!”
The voice feels like razors in his ears. He looks and sees the man from the register. He’s running straight at him. What do I do, what do I do? Move, Dean. Run, now, now, now!
Dean moves just in time to dodge the man. He’s about to run from the store when a cacophony of shattering glass stops him. The breath in his chest is shallow and he forces it to become regular before he turns around.
The man’s dead eyes stare at him just as accusingly as they did in life. Blood drips down his cheeks from the gash on his forehead. It looks like tears.
Running hurts Dean’s cramped toes, but despite the pain, he makes it home in record time. Huddled in a cocoon of sheets is Marty, still asleep. Dean thanks the Lord above that even though he wasn’t able to save his baby brother from the fire, the firemen were.
“Hey, wake up, little man.” Dean pushes Marty’s matted hair out of his face. Underneath his hair, his forehead still bears a scar from the fire.
Marty’s eyes flutter open. “Hey, big man. Y’know what today is?”
Dean smiles. “Happy birthday, Marty.” He pulls the matchbox car out of his pocket. “Here, for you.”
Marty sits upright and his fluttering eyes become wide. He steals the car away from Dean. “A car! A car like vroom, vroom. Mine. I want it. How did you get a car?”
Dean doesn’t answer.
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