Young Writers Society

You stand from your bed and walk to the bathroom. Avoiding your (undoubtedly gruesome) reflection, you find a clean-looking piece of gauze and some Hydrogen Peroxide. You pour the translucent liquid into your forehead, and cringe slightly as it begins its work disinfecting. You apply the bright white cloth to your head. Finally looking in the mirror, you are proud to see that you actually don’t look that bad. Given, you won’t be winning any awards for your looks, but at least you only need to call it an abnormally large zit instead of a gunshot wound in case anyone asks. God, it really was mind-blowing, (that’s punny) to think that you had been shot in the head, and that you survived.

You lather soap into the creases of your shaky extremities, washing countless numbers of your own childhood memories from your hands. Turning off the water, you have a fantastic idea. You rush to your closet and after a bit of a rummage through your possessions, you locate a blue scarf. Wrapped around your bandaged head, you find, makes for a lot less staring, a lot fewer awkward looks, and a lot less explanations. Switching off the light, you retreat into your bedroom again. You can see no reason why you can’t get ready for the day, seeing as you (keep telling yourself) only had a gigantic pimple, instead of a….. gunshot…wound…..

You shiver off the thought. When you’ve almost fully dressed, you glance out the window to see a mother-of-pearl moon illuminating the indigo sky. A fleeting look at your alarm clock tells you (to your great dismay) that it is 3:08 in the morning. You curse loudly, (everyone is asleep; you can afford to make noise) and decide to stay awake. There is, after all, no point in trying to sleep, considering what happened last time you were dreaming…

The sigh that escapes your lips is loud and tired sounding. You really do need sleep. But will you risk it? The thought is rather sobering, whether or not you will come out of your next slumber with another fatal wound. And yet, your dreams may hold the answers to the mysterious “LP” who is nagging at the back of your mind. The scarf is getting itchy, so you unwrap it from your head, laying it on the dresser. You shuffle into the kitchen, still slightly shaky from the whole notion of surviving a deadly wound. A cup of tea sounds particularly needed right now. You put the kettle on, and ready a tea-bag for seeping. The water boils. You pour it into your mug, and watch it thoughtfully as the transparent liquid slowly turns brown.

To go out and face humanity, go *(*I will finish writing this part next, as soon as I can*)*

To stay home and recuperate, go *(* I have yet to create this part too, sorry*)*