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my tragic fifth grade death

29 Mar

At a very young age, I spent way too much time fantasizing about my tragic fifth-grade death. During Social Studies, a crazed twenty-something year-old in a blue hoodie would burst through the door with a shaky hand and a tarnished gun. He’d mumble something I couldn’t understand, and when no one responded, he’d say it louder, stammering under the pressure. The teacher would take a slow step toward him, her hand outstretched, trying to be brave, trying to protect the children. But the man with the gun would take it as a threat and surprise himself by pulling the trigger. The first bullet hit the whiteboard, right in the middle of the California Gold Rush. The second hit the teacher’s desk sending a mug of pens crashing to the floor. And the third bullet hit me. Right in the heart. I fall on my back. No, my knees, and then my face. No, that’s not right either. I fall to my knees, then land on my back, tilting slightly to my left where I can see the undone shoelaces of the love of my nine-year-old life. The gunman panicked, threw his gun to the floor, and ran outside with his hands in the air like he couldn’t believe what they’d done. Matthew would be kneeling by my side now, trying to stop my bleeding with his green jacket. I’d put on a brave face and smile to thank him for his effort. He’d hold my hand with his fingers between mine like I’d always wanted, and I’d take one last breath and die with my eyes closed. He’d cry as if I meant something to him, and my dying would mean he’d never have a healthy relationship with a girl until he realizes at twenty-two that I’m gone, and he has to move on.

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2 Responses to “my tragic fifth grade death”

  1. Wendy March 29, 2012 at 10:20 pm #

    You for real wrote about Matt? LOL and his green jacket?? LOL!!!

    • jenibo March 30, 2012 at 7:42 am #

      He won’t read this. I’m safe. Plus, fifth grade was a long time ago. I’m allowed to write these kinds of things now.

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