Categories > Original > Drama
Hey Kid! Your Face Is In The Tabloids!
0 reviewsA little one-shot I wrote, warning you all about racial prejudice. I didn't state the race of the victim because it could happen to anyone, anywhere. Fight against it, don't let it affect you. ...
0Unrated
Obsessive might be a word that one might use to describe his behaviour although that might not be safe, considering the emotional slump that he is in. He's been sat in front of the receiver for hours now, staring at it patiently, his gaze never faltering. He sighs and begins to tap a vague tune on the polished wooden floor. Oh dear, he's playing this game again.
In his head, all the terrible things that may have happened to her played themselves over and over again. Suppose she's been kidnapped? He imagines her, walking down the street, with her large black coat wrapped tightly around her petite form and then all of a sudden, a man jumps out from a side alley and drags her away, ignoring her kicks and screams and muffled cries for help.
His mind continues to show him more upsetting images; her name in the headlines, tabloids referring to her as 'the missing girl', strangers giving him their condolences as he passes them by in town. He shakes himself physically, trying to rid himself of such thoughts. He blinks back tears and sniffs deeply.
Sam plays this game every ten minutes, though he doesn't know that because he hasn't seen a clock since two o'clock this afternoon and it is now quarter past nine. He has the feeling that there was a short period of time when he fell asleep but he ignores the voice inside of him telling him that she called during that short time. For the tenth time in the past fifteen (now sixteen) minutes, Sam groans and wishes he could move away from the black electrical device in front of him.
Of course, Sam can move away yet he chooses not to. Perhaps it's because he worries that his mother may not be able to cope, if they were to lose her. He laughs a grim, mirthless laugh, the corners of his mouth barely curving. He knows better. Sam is genuinely worried about her well being, though he likes to tell himself that he's not.
As if on cue, the phone begins to ring and although he's been waiting for this moment for something close to seven and a half hours, Sam hesitates. What if they wanted him to come downtown and identify the body? Oh dear, Sam's mind's racing again. He snatches the phone, accepts the call and holds it up to his ear.
"Erm... hello?" He asks nervously. He wants to ask if it's her and then start giving her a lecture on sticking together as a family.
"Sam, dear," his mother's voice reaches his ears and he groans inwardly. "Has Grace come home?"
"No," Sam answers, though he wishes that he could lie and say 'yes' just to make everything all right again.
"I'll be back home soon," Sam's mother says before hanging up. She doesn't even try to console him and Sam wishes she would. As if the calming words of his mother would make everything better.
The day's events replay in his mind for the one-thousandth time as Sam tries to remember some little detail. He glares at the receiver and throws it across the room, not wanting to watch it anymore. He throws himself onto the sofa and turns on the television. He wishes he could sleep. Boy, there are a lot of things that Sam wishes for but he can't have (and they're growing in number).
As Sam pretends to watch Spongebob Squarepants, though he doesn't know who he's pretending to, he remembers a time when he and Grace were only small, barely three feet tall. His grip is firm on one end of a pink and blue Eeyore blanket and her grip just as firm on the other end.
"I want Eeyore!" She cries, giving a ferocious tug. She is younger by eleven minutes due to difficulties in the birth involving the umbilical cord and thinks that, as the younger child, it is her right to keep hold of the blanket.
"He's mine!" Sam cries back, pulling harder. She stumbles forward, falls onto the wooden floor and begins to cry.
Their mother rushes to the scene, scooping Grace up in her arms and singing a soft lullaby to calm the bawling child.
Now Sam wishes he'd let go of that blanket or at least come to some sort of negotiation. He sighs and rubs his temple, another one of those things he wishes for but can't have.
A knock at the door makes Sam jump up, thinking it could be his sister. In the back of his mind he knows it isn't her but he runs to the door anyway, only to see the face of a familiar girl.
Madeleine is always such a kind and happy-go-lucky girl but now she wears an expression reminiscent of the one she wore when her Grandma Charlotte died. Sam's heart's stops beating for a brief moment and he gasps for air.
"Maddy..."
"Sam, we've got to go," his sister's friend grabs his arm, with unneeded force. Sam stumbles slightly as he follows Madeleine to her small silver car.
Neither says a word during the drive. Not Madeleine. Not Sam. The car comes to a halt and Sam looks up. They aren't at the hospital or the police station or the morgue. Instead, they are in the middle of a road. The road is quite narrow and lined by hedges and there are no other people or cars in sight. Sam realises that they are out of town.
Madeleine turns to Sam, her eyes full of remorse. Sam's stomach does a flip as she opens her mouth to speak but closes it again. He can't handle the prolonged silence.
"I'm didn't mean for it to end this way..." she begins.
And now she's lost him. A life starts to flash before his eyes, not his but hers. Tears start to fill his eyes and his nose is turning redder and redder and beginning to tingle. The air conditioning in the car suddenly seems bitterly cold and he shivers.
"She was killed," Madeleine is still talking but she doesn't know that he is barely listening. "Murdered... I'm sorry Sam," Madeleine breaks down, her words becoming harder and harder to understand.
Sam strokes her hair consolingly but he is far away, imagining tomorrow's headlines. They'd all read, 'Teen Murdered' but in his opinion they should read, 'Prejudice Kills' because it doesn't matter if you're white, black, albino or in between, racial prejudice kills.
"Miss you already, Gracey."
In his head, all the terrible things that may have happened to her played themselves over and over again. Suppose she's been kidnapped? He imagines her, walking down the street, with her large black coat wrapped tightly around her petite form and then all of a sudden, a man jumps out from a side alley and drags her away, ignoring her kicks and screams and muffled cries for help.
His mind continues to show him more upsetting images; her name in the headlines, tabloids referring to her as 'the missing girl', strangers giving him their condolences as he passes them by in town. He shakes himself physically, trying to rid himself of such thoughts. He blinks back tears and sniffs deeply.
Sam plays this game every ten minutes, though he doesn't know that because he hasn't seen a clock since two o'clock this afternoon and it is now quarter past nine. He has the feeling that there was a short period of time when he fell asleep but he ignores the voice inside of him telling him that she called during that short time. For the tenth time in the past fifteen (now sixteen) minutes, Sam groans and wishes he could move away from the black electrical device in front of him.
Of course, Sam can move away yet he chooses not to. Perhaps it's because he worries that his mother may not be able to cope, if they were to lose her. He laughs a grim, mirthless laugh, the corners of his mouth barely curving. He knows better. Sam is genuinely worried about her well being, though he likes to tell himself that he's not.
As if on cue, the phone begins to ring and although he's been waiting for this moment for something close to seven and a half hours, Sam hesitates. What if they wanted him to come downtown and identify the body? Oh dear, Sam's mind's racing again. He snatches the phone, accepts the call and holds it up to his ear.
"Erm... hello?" He asks nervously. He wants to ask if it's her and then start giving her a lecture on sticking together as a family.
"Sam, dear," his mother's voice reaches his ears and he groans inwardly. "Has Grace come home?"
"No," Sam answers, though he wishes that he could lie and say 'yes' just to make everything all right again.
"I'll be back home soon," Sam's mother says before hanging up. She doesn't even try to console him and Sam wishes she would. As if the calming words of his mother would make everything better.
The day's events replay in his mind for the one-thousandth time as Sam tries to remember some little detail. He glares at the receiver and throws it across the room, not wanting to watch it anymore. He throws himself onto the sofa and turns on the television. He wishes he could sleep. Boy, there are a lot of things that Sam wishes for but he can't have (and they're growing in number).
As Sam pretends to watch Spongebob Squarepants, though he doesn't know who he's pretending to, he remembers a time when he and Grace were only small, barely three feet tall. His grip is firm on one end of a pink and blue Eeyore blanket and her grip just as firm on the other end.
"I want Eeyore!" She cries, giving a ferocious tug. She is younger by eleven minutes due to difficulties in the birth involving the umbilical cord and thinks that, as the younger child, it is her right to keep hold of the blanket.
"He's mine!" Sam cries back, pulling harder. She stumbles forward, falls onto the wooden floor and begins to cry.
Their mother rushes to the scene, scooping Grace up in her arms and singing a soft lullaby to calm the bawling child.
Now Sam wishes he'd let go of that blanket or at least come to some sort of negotiation. He sighs and rubs his temple, another one of those things he wishes for but can't have.
A knock at the door makes Sam jump up, thinking it could be his sister. In the back of his mind he knows it isn't her but he runs to the door anyway, only to see the face of a familiar girl.
Madeleine is always such a kind and happy-go-lucky girl but now she wears an expression reminiscent of the one she wore when her Grandma Charlotte died. Sam's heart's stops beating for a brief moment and he gasps for air.
"Maddy..."
"Sam, we've got to go," his sister's friend grabs his arm, with unneeded force. Sam stumbles slightly as he follows Madeleine to her small silver car.
Neither says a word during the drive. Not Madeleine. Not Sam. The car comes to a halt and Sam looks up. They aren't at the hospital or the police station or the morgue. Instead, they are in the middle of a road. The road is quite narrow and lined by hedges and there are no other people or cars in sight. Sam realises that they are out of town.
Madeleine turns to Sam, her eyes full of remorse. Sam's stomach does a flip as she opens her mouth to speak but closes it again. He can't handle the prolonged silence.
"I'm didn't mean for it to end this way..." she begins.
And now she's lost him. A life starts to flash before his eyes, not his but hers. Tears start to fill his eyes and his nose is turning redder and redder and beginning to tingle. The air conditioning in the car suddenly seems bitterly cold and he shivers.
"She was killed," Madeleine is still talking but she doesn't know that he is barely listening. "Murdered... I'm sorry Sam," Madeleine breaks down, her words becoming harder and harder to understand.
Sam strokes her hair consolingly but he is far away, imagining tomorrow's headlines. They'd all read, 'Teen Murdered' but in his opinion they should read, 'Prejudice Kills' because it doesn't matter if you're white, black, albino or in between, racial prejudice kills.
"Miss you already, Gracey."
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