Short Story Writing - Red (1st Draft)

Red

You told yourself that last time was supposed to be the last time. You wanted a normal life. You wanted the simple things in life. Friends, family, a job. You wanted to walk down the street and smile at a complete stranger, and have them smile back at you. You wanted to pluck flowers from your neighbors lawns and wear them in your hair. You wanted to fly kites on a sunny day and stare at that brightly colored diamond up in the sky. You wanted all these things, but life wouldn’t let you have them.

You’re standing here now, covered in blood. Its cold out, and your breath appears in little puffs of steam, but the warmth of freshly spilled blood keeps your hands warm. The night is bright, and the moonlight reflects off the blood, giving you a faint red glow. The blood is still bright red, and you can feel the oxygen still alive in the blood, warmth being wasted away upon your skin. The knife you hold in your hand slowly drips away freckles of red. You stare down at the steaming mass of red and black in front of you and smile, ever so slightly. You reach down and feel around into the mass of redness, and eventually pull out a wallet. You flip it open and stare at the stack of bills tucked in the seams. A quick snap echoes throughout the alley as you quickly shut the wallet and stuck it into your sweater pocket. You don’t even give him one last glance as you turn and walk away into the night.

***

You didn’t want to be like this. You remember only bits and pieces of your childhood. You remember your mother as being small. Fragile would be a good word to describe her. She would always wear aprons, and keep her hair tied up in a ponytail. You always pictured her in a kitchen, chopping onions and smiling, telling you that dinner would be coming up soon, or standing above you with a schoolbook, trying to home school you in the basics of Dr. Seuss and multiplication. You remember her face as being naturally pale. The traditional asian mom, you always thought. You don’t remember how or why she died. She just suddenly disappeared from your life one day, and all you can remember is feeling empty for awhile afterwards. You don’t have any memories of your father at all. Nothing, not even a faded picture stored away in a locket or a casual retelling of his existence from a friend of his. You could only picture him through your own looks. Everything about yourself that you didn’t see in your mother became your father. Any mirror you could get your hands on became the closest picture of your father that you could remember. After awhile though, you stopped caring who he was, because he obviously didn’t care enough to find you.

You bounced from family to family for awhile, trading frowns from abusive foster parents for ignorant glances from social workers too busy to care you were there. Fourteen was the turning point in your life. The government decided that you were old enough to live on your own, so they sent you to the city. Living all alone as a young teenager in the apartment you currently reside in, with the only human contact coming from the government worker that arrived each Monday to bring you a box of groceries. You were amazed by the amount of freedom you had. You were finally able to eat ice cream for dinner and run around in your underwear like you always wanted too. These brief periods of joy quickly went away when you realized that the ever empty rooms of your apartment weren’t good for developing a social life.

You decided to take baby steps first, and explore your apartment building. That first night still haunts your dreams to this day. You poked your head out the door and looked from side to side, only to be met by empty hallways and flickering yellow lights. You stepped out and cautiously put each foot in front of the other, hoping not to cause any disruptions to any future friends. You walked close to the walls, hoping that it would provide for protection against any unseen dangers. Your fingers ran against the wall, scraping away flakes of dry wallpaper in clumps that fell to the floor, joining the ground level community of plastic penny bags, permanent dirt, and the empire of ants that marched along the unnaturally brown carpet. The silence was only marred by a distant door slamming or heavy footsteps from above.

You walked alone to the door to the stairway, and paused for a second. Your face looked almost scared for a second, almost as if you were contemplating running back to your apartment and becoming one with the sheets on your bed. You reached your hand out slowly to grab the doorknob and you let your hand reach fully around it. You could feel the rust breaking away from the iron onto your hand as you pulled the door towards you. You began to walk into the dark stairway when you felt your foot meet something rigid. Your eyes moved down to meet the two pale legs that were impeding your progress. Your mouth and eyes seemed to open wider in unison as the shock of finding random legs grew in your body. You wanted to run away. You wanted to escape to the comfort of your bed. Your morals wouldn’t allow it to happen though. You ran your eyes along the legs and found that they were connected to an unmoving woman. She was slouched against the wall, her head in her chest. Her messy grey hair was strewn along her body, falling everywhere in clumps that resembled an oil spill. She was clothed in nothing more then faded blue shorts and a white tank top that clung loosely to her skinny frame. You could see the veins through her lucid skin. Tiny red dots adorned her inner forearm, as if someone was sewing a patter into her arm and then decided to pull out all the thread. You began to move forward, trying to find any signs of life. Trying to see a finger twitch. Hoping to see her chest rise and fall with new air. Closer and closer you came, until you were nearly over her, You paused for a second, wishing for something, anything to happen, but finally you began to slowly retreat backwards. A quick hand around your wrist changed all that though. You saw two eyes, desperately yellow, staring straight into your own. You felt an unnaturally cold hand grasp your wrist, firm, but not much else. You heard a voice, barely able to escape cracked lips and crooked teeth. ”Save me.”

You ran back to your apartment and quickly dialed those three numbers that had saved so many before. You tried to calm your breathing as the operator answered with tiredness in her voice.

“911 emergencies, how may I assist you?”
“Help! There’s someone that needs help”
“Ok miss I’ll need you to calm down. Can you tell me your location?”
“I’m at the Rivera apartments. Please a woman is very sick!”
“Oh the Rivera place again? We send people there at least three times a day. Sigh alright well we’ll try sending someone out there”

You ran back to the woman and sat next to her, hoping to provide her with as much comfort as your arms could give. The only thing you could do now was wait and dodge the disapproving glances of those passing by on the stairway. It was well over an hour before the police arrived. You looked at them with bright eyes as they walked up the stairway, but they quickly faded as you saw the metal handcuffs being placed on her wrists and seeing her dragged down the stairs.

“Wait, what are you doing?”
“Taking her in. A good night in jail will sober her up enough for court.”
“But she needs help!”
“We are helping. By taking druggies like this one off the streets. Thanks for calling her in.”

You sat there, a look of defeat on your face. Help. That was all she needed and you had failed her. You walked back to your apartment and sat on your bed, stuck there with an eternal stare that lasted until sleep finally took over.

That was the end of your journeys outside, at least until school began for you. Freshman at a public high school after being homeschooled your whole life. You didn’t exactly know how to feel sitting in that chair in class on the first day, just a quiet spot in a classroom filled with noise. You could feel the stares of other students, but whenever you moved your eyes to meet theirs, they would quickly look away. That first day went by quickly. Nobody tried to talk to you, but a lot of people seemed to notice you. You thought it was because you were the new girl in school, but that’s not what was running through the minds of the students at school. No, you were just the new cute face at school. The boys loved how your hair hugged the sides of your face and curved ever so slightly underneath your chin. They loved how your sweater would catch your growing curves in just the right places. They loved how you seemed to almost glide through daily life. And the girls, they hated how you were able to pull all this off without even trying.

As time began to go by, the students began to take a little more interest in you. They would try talking to you, but ever since the incident with the drugged up woman, you’ve found it hard to put trust into people in this city. You’d just walk through campus and return all the greetings with a fake smile that you hung from your face. You began to notice that one boy was taking an even greater interest in you than all the others. You knew him as Alex Tate, the boy who would always walk you to class, the boy who would volunteer to be your partner for projects, and the boy who would insist on buying you lunch every day. The rest of campus knew him as the star guard on the basketball team with great grades. The only one on campus that had a future.

You can just barely remember the moment that changed it all now. It’s hard for you to tell the difference from truth and fiction with how long it’s been since it happened. It’s all just a blur with random images of the past quickly flashing by like a film reel with every other scene cut out. You remember that final project in lab class. You and Alex working away after school, just you and him in the lab. It all started with him asking a simple question. “Will you go to prom with me?” You remember saying no, and after that it mostly becomes numb. You remember two hands clutching your shoulders and being pushed back against the lab bench. You remember him angrily growling at you. “Do you know who I am? I get what I want!” You remember looking straight up, trying not to feel the hands invading the inside of your sweater or the cold air creeping over newly exposed legs. You didn’t fight back, knowing that you’d only get hurt more in the process. You just let it happen, keeping your eyes fixated on the tiles in the celing.

Lost. That was the only word that could describe you. You knew the school board would do nothing to harm their prized possession. They would just spout off something about how such an incident would ruin his life and the schools reputation. You could do nothing except go home. You tried to press down your tangled hair and clear the tears from your eyes. You tried to put your now ripped and stretched out sweater back on. You did your best to clean up the blood creeping down your inner thighs. You walked back to your apartment, and began the slow walk up the stairs. With each step, you could feel a new pain in your stomach as you felt wetness begin to run down your leg. You stopped at the final step and stared cloudy eyed at the spot where you found the woman. A slight smile came to your face as you knew what to do.

***

You’re showering now, washing away the stains of life as a constant river of red flows down the drain. You run your hands through your long black hair, picking out the small pieces of coagulated blood. The light bulb flickers violently in the small box that you call your bathroom. The shrill hum of the water coming out of the showerhead echoes off the ceramic tiles on the walls. You can hear the faucet squeak as you turn the water off and wrap a towel around your head. You walk over to the mirror and wipe your hand across it to clear the steam.

You slide the towel down your hair, drying it and letting it naturally fall into its layers. You quickly dry the rest of your body and begin to put on the layers of your life. A v-neck t-shirt to reveal a little skin. Plaid black skirt, for that school-girl look you know the guys love. A dash of black under your eyes, to make them look bigger and more innocent. A touch of lipstick for that added appeal. Finally, a red sweater, zipped up halfway, to make you stand out against the night. You wrapped the hood halfway around your head and stepped into your bedroom. You walked over to your laundry and grabbed the wallet out from the pocket of your sweater. You pulled out the stack of bills and tossed the wallet on top of the pile of wallets in your closet. You grabbed your purse and checked the inside of it. A familiar metallic shine met your gaze. You walked out of your apartment and down the hallway. You stopped at a door and softly tapped on the door. A woman answered, and smiled at you. You reached out your hand and handed her the stack of bills. “Here, get what you need.” She reached out a scarred arm and took the money from your hand. She mouthed thank you repeatedly as she squeezed your hands. You heard a child’s voice behind her and she looked at you once more with bright eyes, and closed the door.

You walked down the stairway and out of your apartment building. You were met with a cool gush of air from the night skies and it made the hair on your arms bristle up. You began to walk down the street, walking past dark alleys and dimly lit doorways. Eyes began to stare at you as you walked through the city, a streak of red painting its way through the night. You noticed a figure following you so you decided to turn into an alley. You heard hurried footsteps from behind and you felt a firm hand grasp your shoulder. “Hey little girl you lost? Lemme take you home with me.” You reached into your purse and one slash was all it took to end that voice. You felt around his body and pulled out his wallet. You know the cops wouldn’t care about finding an unidentified body around this area. You put the wallet in your pocket and began the walk back home.

Each time still feels as good as it did that very first night. Waiting for him to come home after his basketball game. You stood there on his porch, leaning ever so slightly against the archway. You kept one hand behind your back and the other hand you kept over the smile that appeared as soon as he got out of his car. He started towards you, hesitant at first, but your innocent look made him bolder with each step. He asked what you were doing there and you responded with “I understand now.” You smiled with your eyes as he came ever closer and asked what you understood. You opened your mouth to respond, as you plunged the knife you had carefully hid behind your back into his stomach. “I understand how it all works now.”

You ran back to your apartment building, afraid that someone would see you covered in blood, but the streets were empty that night, and if anyone did see you, they were probably more scared of a beautiful girl covered in blood holding a knife than you were of their questioning tongues. You made it to your apartment and ran into the shower, clothing and all. You almost screamed knowing that you had actually done it. You couldn’t wait to utilize the money you had just earned.

You remember finally seeing her, freshly released from prison, staggering down the hallway. You caught up to her, and grabbed her arm. You didn’t know if she recognized you or not, but the money you put into your hand from Alex’s wallet made her stare at you with those same yellow eyes. You told her for the first time. “Get what you need.” You walked away as she leaned against the hall, staring at the money in her hand.

Its been 4 years since that first night. You used to be scared. Scared that you’d fall into a pattern and just get bored and desensitized to the rush of feeling your knife in the stomach of a predator, but that rush hasn’t changed at all. You still feel the same whenever you take out their wallet and stare at the bills they keep inside. You still smile the same, every time you give her that new stack of money.


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This definitely needs to be worked on. Theres alot I added in just for the sake of reaching the 10 page minimum. Darn those rules. This started out as a modern take on Little Red Riding Hood, but it ended up as more of a Robin Hood tale than anything else. Well I hope you enjoy and I will rework this as needed.

Short Story Writing 14 Killers (Final)

14 Killers

Everyday you look at yourself in the mirror and sigh heavily. Whenever you shave away the sandpaper on your face, it reveals the wrinkles that come with old age. You poke at the lines growing across your skin and shudder a little, wondering how an expressionless face could produce such deep flaws. You dress yourself in the same color palate each day, solid blues and grays, and even though your job has no uniform, you look like the typical worker. Coffee has lost its effect on you, and only the slight burn of its heat on your tongue clears your mind of blurriness. Mornings haven’t felt good in years.

You stare across the table at your family and frown in disgust. Your wife hasn’t looked at you in forever. Her sullen eyes watch her hand slowly swirling a spoon in her coffee. You remember when she used to look at you and hold you and say “I love you.” Those days are long gone now. She cringes if you touch her like you used to, and you haven’t had sex in years. Your son sits there as if he’s waiting for a chance to escape. You look at him, dressed in his struggling gangster clothes, and wonder where you went wrong. You notice that most of the colors he’s been wearing lately have been red, and today his looks are following that trend. You give them a final glance over your shoulder before you walk out the door for work, show them a fake smile, and say goodbye.

You walk outside and your eyes water a little from the cold and the smog. You see your car sitting there, still slightly frosty from the morning mist. Your poor car, it was supposed to be your dream car. A brand new Mustang should be sitting here, beckoning your presence with its powerful nature. Instead, all that sits in front of you is a used station wagon, with paint fading away in all areas. You slam the door shut after you get in, and you start the engine. The car rumbles slightly, but it starts like the reliable piece of work that it is. The garage slowly moves away as you reverse down your driveway. Your house fades away as you drive through your neighborhood.

You drive through the streets and look around, wondering where all the beauty in the world is. You remember reading children’s books while growing up and seeing a world full of happiness and color. You would see a world full of people smiling. A world where even the cars and buildings and clouds would smile. You don’t see any of that around you now, though. A world of non-fiction flows past the windows of your car. Buildings of grey and brown, swirled by motion into one long streak of unsightly blurriness. As a child, you never even knew colors like this existed so commonly in the world. You never see anyone smiling either. Everyone has a look of depression on their faces, as if their shadows were taking control of their expressions. The surrounding world makes it impossible for the cars and the buildings and the clouds to look happy also. Your child self would be crying right now if he knew that his future world would be crushed just by drab colors.

The neighborhood you live in makes you sick. You wish you could close your eyes while driving, just so you could remain ignorant of the world around you. You see signs of the ghetto all around you, and these sights weigh heavily in your right foot. The grey clouds forever linger in the sky above. They set the perfect atmosphere for the depressing neighborhood that you’re now a part of. Clouds that are so lifeless and so dull that they seem to be an extension of the rooftops. You feel like you haven’t seen the sun in ages. You swear that God is somehow trying to cover up this blemish on the world, and that he’s doing a damn good job at it.
You feel your car rumble as it runs over cracks in the road. No, cracks aren’t the right word for them. More like trenches. Trenches caused by years of use and neglect. You eyebrows begin to furrow as you try and predict when one of these trenches will puncture a hole in your tires and send your car veering out of control. Your mood worsens even more when you think of how the roads will be once it starts raining. The trenches become creeks and rivers, eventually forming an urban ecosystem. A delta full of trash and filth, creating a river that matches your memories of the pollution from those old Captain Planet TV shows that you used to watch as a child. A low growl escapes from your mouth when your car hits one of the trenches, causing your teeth to jar together. You curse the construction workers, knowing that they’re too scared to come and fix the roads, but at the same time you understand why they wouldn’t want to be stuck on the streets in a place like this.

You look up and see the ever prevalent gang signs starting to flow past your car. Red XIV’s and X4’s spray painted everywhere. They think they’re so fucking clever. Those Norteños calling themselves N’s. The fourteenth letter of the alphabet. Romanize that fourteen and you get an XIV. Yeah they’re so fucking cute. You’re tired of seeing all these gang signs spray painted everywhere. You always see them, sprayed blatantly in the middle of fences, garages, and anything that could be branded with their mark. You’ve even seen someone driving down 10th street with XIV stamped right across their front wind shield.

You can’t do a damn thing about it either. There’s so many of them that getting rid of a few would just be pointless. You hate how the color of the signs stands out so much against whatever color its spray painted on. Bright red. Makes you feel like the neighborhood has been streaked in fresh blood. You think that they could have chosen a better color also. You hate how they represent red, a color you grew up on. A color you once thought was energetic and bold. You never used to associate red with blood, but now it’s the first thing that comes to mind when you see that color. Yet another strand of your childhood cut by the present.

You also know all the stories about people trying to remove the signs. You see freshly painted walls. Walls that used to be adorned with graffiti and red spray paint, now clean and new. You know that wall is going to be marked very soon. Another red XIV will soon appear there to replace its fallen comrades, but you know that this one will be a little different. There’s going to be a circle around the X, and your trained eye knows what this means. You think that the circled X looks just like an eye. Its watching the community even more carefully now, waiting for someone to make a mistake. You know that the X has now evolved into an emblem meant for more than just territory. The circle is a warning, telling the people not to mess with the N’s. You hate it when you see these community service organizations come into your neighborhood. Coming in with paint brushes and fake goodwill. Thinking that they’re helping out the community with some beautification project. You know they don’t feel any fear painting over gang signs because they don’t have to live here. They don’t have to face the consequences of their actions. They just soak up the rewards of their hard work, and go home and pat themselves on the back. You want to tell them that their actions are just going to make things worse. That they are just going to eventually cause more violence and more gang signs, but they’re not going to listen to you. Your words would fall on ears too plugged up with good intentions to even respond to your reasoning. You know the stories of your neighbors because you live in these stories and you become a part of them. Houses near freshly painted walls soon become covered in yellow police tape. It’s just a crime scene waiting to happen. A scene all too familiar to you.

Then you see the shoes. A pair of shoes tied together by the laces and flung over a telephone line. You used to think of this as nothing. It’s just a practical joke that the kids must do just to have a quick laugh. Just mischievous innocence. Thinking of little kids giggling and running away from their little terrorist act used to make you smile. It used to make you think that there was still a sliver of happiness in the world. You used to think this way until your son and his friends ruined everything. You remember it vividly. Your son and his group of rebels were lounging in your living room, invading your couch and TV. You were trying to be a good parent, and trying to ignore their conversation and their rehearsed to perfection ghetto accents. You stayed in your room just so that their voices would become muddled by the multiple layers of walls. You planned to lie on your bed all day and rest, but your stomach wouldn’t let you do that. It began growling, and as time went on, your kitchen started to sound more and more delicious. Slowly, you opened the door and stealthily walked into the kitchen, trying not to cause any noise, just so that your son wouldn’t think you were spying on him. You stood there in the kitchen, knife in hand, trying to make a sandwich, when their conversation suddenly struck you.

“Yeah man, them shoes are from that scrap the N’s jumped a few nights ago.”
“Aw shit no way. For reals man?”
“Yeah fool I ain’t lying. They threw them up there to show them bitch asses what’s up.”
“Damn man, those were some nice kicks though. Wish they gave em to me instead though.”

You stood there helpless as your thoughts of pure innocence were crushed by the N’s. You almost dropped your sandwich after hearing this, but you made it back to your room with food intact. Seeing these shoes now evokes the same emotions that you felt back then. You feel helpless as they dangle above you, taunting you with their fake innocence. These shoes remind you of your attempts to guide your son through life. You wanted to show him that there was more to the world than what was past his windows. You painted his room in bright colors and surrounded him with books full of smiles. You remember sending him off to school, watching him trot away with his bright yellow rain boots and matching rain jacket. None of it worked. Those bright colors eventually evolved into shades of red. Consequences of the public school system. He looks away from you now, as if he’s trying to escape your influence. All this comes to you, just from seeing shoes perched upon a telephone line. You slam the gas pedal and avoid the rear view mirror, hoping that they’ll just fade away into the sky.

You finally make it out of the ghetto and roll into the city. There’s more colors here to look at and feel, but this isn’t your life. All you do here is go to work in a box that’s been affectionately labeled a cubicle. Its walls are scattered with pictures of your family. Pictures of a time when your smiles weren’t forced and your wife actually held your hand. You sit there for eight hours a day, pretending to do work and letting your computer burn holes in your retinas. You remember when this job used to be promising. An energetic greeting and a firm handshake was all you thought you needed. Your bosses used to say you were going places in the company. You realize now that they were just trapping you in the company, slowly turning you into a mid-age worker with no hope of getting a new job, forcing you to stay forever. You just shake your head now at how naive you were, and all you can do now is stare at the clock and wish for it to go faster and faster. That second hand always seems to be running a marathon that it’ll never complete. Finally, your day is done. Your car is waiting for you in the parking lot, looking as defeated as ever. You start the ignition and begin to head home.

You feel like the drive home is just everything you saw in the morning in reverse order. It’s like life is just rewinding over the worst parts of your life and playing them back over and over again. Same red XIV’s everywhere you look. Same shoes dangling above you, taunting you from their peak up above. Same house you return to every evening. You see that something is a little different today though. You see people gathered around your house from a distance, and you wonder what might be going on. Your mind starts to race a little. You start to wonder if something exciting is finally happening in your life. Maybe they’re throwing a party just for you. Maybe they’re all excitedly awaiting your return so you can all smile and be happy again. When you pull up closer though, you see that it’s just your son and his dumbass friends, playing around in front of your street. Your eyes grow as soon as you see what they’re doing. They’re playing 14 Killers. You fucking hate that game. You think it’s the stupidest game they could have thought of. You wish they could just play tag instead of this shitty variation of it. You see your sons friends pointing at each other, hands shaped like guns. You can hear them yelling at each other. They’re running around, hiding behind cars and diving behind trash cans. The soccer ball you got them just so they wouldn’t play this game is sitting there, stuck up against the curb, still looking pretty new. You cuss to yourself in your car. God dammit, these fucking kids, I told them not to play that damn game. Playing that damn recruitment tool. Fucking little wannabe gangsters. You can’t stand watching them having fun while they’re fake killing each other.

You park your car in the driveway and they pretend not to notice you. You quickly get out your car and slam the door, and still not one of them even bothers to look at you. Must be too damn consumed in their game, you think. Hey, you say, as you walk down the driveway. You don’t notice it, but your fists are clenched and your eyes are blazing. A few of the kids shoot a cautious glance in your direction. Hey, you say, what did I tell you kids about playing that game? They’re all looking up at you now. They’re staring at you as if you’re the one about to shoot them. You’ve got your fingers raised, pointing at them, lecturing them about how they shouldn’t be play killing each other. You’re starting to make a scene. Neighbors begin to peek out of their windows, trying to get a glimpse of the commotion. None of them come out and help you though. They all stay hidden in their homes, all too willing to let you do all the talking. You scream and you shout and you stomp. Finally, you hear it.

Hey, you hear, can you shut the hell up. You look around for the source, and you realize with shock, that it’s one of your sons friends. It’s Dom, the outspoken ringleader. He’s stepped forward, that brave little bastard. Acting tough, just to impress his friends. Standing in front of you, dressed in clothes five years ahead of him. Red shoes, red belt, red shirt. His arms are crossed, arms that are blank now, but look like they’ll soon carry the script of the streets. And he’s staring at you, with his head cocked a little to the side. You hear his voice again, and its accent pisses you off. Hey, you hear, we can do what the fuck we want.

You don’t feel yourself moving forward. You just see Dom’s figure growing steadily. You don’t see his eyes growing with fear. You don’t see that he’s actually scared, that his little act has gone away. He’s running away now, along with his gangster buddies. You contemplate chasing them, but no, the thought of running after some punk doesn’t delight you much. You linger in the street for a little bit, staring at them running away as they become ants on the horizon.

You walk inside your house and eat your dinner silently. Your wife stands at the sink, only making noise with the dishes. You know she knows what happened, but you can’t tell if she’s happy or sad. You don’t want to talk about it, not with her. Her being nice to you now wouldn’t make up for all those years of denial. You finish the rest of your food and go straight to sleep.

The next morning, you walk into the kitchen and see all the familiarities of the morning. A cold breakfast, layed out on the table. Your wife sits there, and she doesn’t even give you a good morning glance. Your son is nowhere to be seen. Looks like he finally found that escape. You pick at your food and get up to leave. No fake smile escapes from your lips this time. You pull open the door and walk outside to your car. Your eyes water more than usual this morning and a familiar scent fills the air. You rub away the wetness in your eyes and look ahead. A small shock of warmth takes the place of the emptiness in your stomach. Your car is staring right back at you, red circle emblazed.


So basically the only drastic changes I made was cleaning up the ending. Making it seem more realistic I guess. I also added in parts concerning the history of the main character, such as his job and his relationship with his son. I'll be submitting this story to the contest at school so wish me luck.