My English Professor’s assignments and girls who wear too much make up.
The two things I hated, yet found myself staring at every Thursday morning.
Since it was all too impossible to walk into a library with swag, I flipped up the hood of my jacket and kept my face down. Sadly, this action caused me to bump into one older woman and practically knock down three others. Which, of course, led to “excuse me” and “sorry”, and eventually the recognition of former classmates.
I said former, because after all the required shenanigans for papers deemed necessary for college credit, I had planned on becoming a college drop out.
“Benjamin,” the grand Prof had said to me, “find something you’re passionate about. And research it, pick it apart; then you’ll write a worthwhile paper.”
“Is the paper mandatory?” I asked, though he had just explained to the class it wasn’t.
“If you consider making a passing grade mandatory, then, yes…I’d say so.”
And that’s how I came to the horrible experience of entering the library.
After being directed to the World Events section, I scanned the list of topics that would pertain to my subject matter. Actually, I was still looking for a subject matter, thanks to the contest rules that gave more useless suggestions than it did help. Several minutes passes before I selected a book entitled, Enslaved: The Process of Human
Seemed simple enough. I was pretty sure how the whole process worked, and didn’t really relish the idea of thinking on it. I flipped to the end of the book, scanned the index until I saw the note of Survivor Stories, page 108. Interested, I turned there. Most of the writing seemed scripted and vague, as if the author cringed at the thought of giving details as much as I did about reading them. A name caught my eye; I let it linger only a moment before diving into the rest of the text.
Survivor since 2007
I hid behind an unmoving taxi, and slumped to the ground gasping for air. I tried to calculate how much time I had before the enemy would reach me. It would only be a matter of seconds, I guessed, before I had to sneak into another dark alley and run again. I peered behind the wheel of the dirty yellow vehicle. I jerked back; the enemy was just crossing the street. I crawled under the car, for no better ideas came into my mind. There was no time for thinking; only time to act. I tried to close my eyes, but nerves kept my eyelids glued open. I studied the many feet that shuffled, danced, and scurried past my viewpoint. Then, two steady pairs of feet appeared in front of the car. They had no set destination as the others; no, these feet were sturdily holding men who were surveying their surroundings. Looking, searching, and scouting for their next victim.
Teeth clenched, I thought of the possibilities of my future. If the enemy looked under the taxi, I would be caught. If I snuck from underneath the vehicle, I could possibly slip away without being seen. But would that be taking too much of a chance? In the clatter of people and traffic, I failed to notice another pair of feet approaching. Normally, I wouldn’t have noticed this man. I had no reason too. Besides, taxi drivers had no business with girls like me.
A door above me creaked open. The driver slid into his seat, causing the taxi to slump down because of the new weight. The door slammed shut.
Heart pounding, I prepared myself for the action that was about to take place. The car started. I was determined to not be caught by the cruel creatures. I placed my blistered hands on the dirty pavement, getting ready to spring up and run like a wild cat. I kept my body flat, taking care not to be run over by the wheels. The taxi moved slowly, inch by inch, and soon became a part of the traffic beside us. As soon as my back was exposed to the hot sun, I scrambled up to my feet and turned the opposite direction of where the enemy was standing.
I ran as fast as my legs could take me, never looking back.
Check back tomorrow for Part Two.