Little Angers

Little Angers

         When I was little, I would write poems and stories to escape reality and it worked for a night or two. Then, I had to face the day and it was a challenge. No one would know how or where it would go. Not even me, but today I want to share with you a couple poems or stories I wrote when I was little. On August 2009, I had a dream and that dream turned into a story called The Runaway. The background of this story is its olden times with cobble stone streets and there are two brothers, Shaun and Billy, who live in a one-floor house with a kitchen, living room, and two bedrooms. Shaun is six and has dirty blond hair, blue eyes, and is favorited by the mother. Billy is ten and has brown hair, blue eyes, hand-me-down clothes, and the only safe haven is the pasture. Next to the house there is a pasture where the story takes place.
         One day the boys were coming home from school and they hear their parents arguing so they decide to run across a field, when they see off in the distance, a fire burning down an old firehouse. They see their father go out of the house, get in his mate's car, and drive to the old building. The boys run and find an old wall, with vines and little indents, to climb up on. Over the wall, they can see clearly that there is a couple trapped in there. With water-filled eyes my dad got to them just in time and tried to get them out. He turned around to see if there was any help nearby. Instead he saw us.
         "You two get off that wall. I mean it. Go home! Son, do it now!! And where is your brother?"
         He couldn't leave the couple's side otherwise God knows what he would've done. I just stood there while Billy was on the other side of the ledge with another wall covering him so our father couldn't see. I looked at my father then looked at Billy. There was both terror in our eyes and Billy seemed to say go home. So I did. Billy ended up crawling along that ledge until he came across an opening and climbed through it. There, he saw some kids playing baseball. He ran up to say that this building is coming down due to a fire.
"This building is burning, everyone out now."
"There isn't any fire."
"It hasn't gotten to you yet."
I head them through the rotten baseball throwing station and through the trees.
This should be easy to get to the other side of the pasture from here.
"Just keep on running and don't look back."
"Where are you going to go?"
"Me, I'm running."
"No you have to come with us."
"No way. I'm going my own way."
And I did. I watched them run through the pasture then I ran through the trees. I never saw my brother again. As for my parents they are probably still arguing in their graves. My name is Billy and I'm a runaway.
         This is just first of many stories to come throughout my life reflecting my childhood. Somehow, my anger was always directed towards my father or my brother because they didn't understand what I was going through and my thought process. At most times, though, I was more frustrated with myself for not fitting in, having only two friends, or just why couldn't I understand what seemed like simple things to the rest of the world?
         My brother distinctively remembers a day when I was hiding in a closet, which was my main hiding place so it became predictable after a while, because I had another fight with my dad. My brother found me crying and instead of yelling at me because he realized yelling wouldn't accomplish anything, we both sat down, talked about my anger towards the situation and in general and I calmed down finally. That day was a turning point for my brother and I. To this day, he has been my rock and the person I go to for any advice I need in life.
         My father and I never really had a good relationship to say the least. He and I would always but heads because we were both immensely stubborn. As for myself, I constantly felt anger about the world and the people around me. This feeling continued throughout my sophomore year of high school. I tended to feel anger towards the people who didn't understand me and were always feeling bad for me. They were just trying to help me, but at that time, I only saw the world as my point of view. Again, the stubbornness takes hold in my mind and actions.
         In middle school, I remember not wanting to walk up the steps because I was bullied and the teachers didn't understand me at all. All except one. I remember my writing teacher talking to me one-on-one and hearing me out with my problems. She mentioned if I take out my anger and stress on writing and I did. Because of that one experience, I will continue to write and that will continue to be my outlet. I remember when I was little, I wrote a story because I had another dream. It was from the perspective of myself.
         One day I woke up on a beach with a seagull yelling at me up ahead. I look out at the sea in front of me and in a blink of an eye I'm on the battlefield. There are multiple soldiers around me dying so fast it's unbelievable. One soldier was running past me and getting hit by several bullets and fell down instantly. He was bleeding profusely and I saw a doctor come over to him trying to fix his wounds. In another blink of an eye, I am in the forest alone with ferocious animals surrounding me. I only have one gun and I can't kill all of them. I blink my eyes one last time and I am back on the beach lying down. The dream ends with a last yell of the seagull as I wake up.
         When I was a teenager, I was talking to my mother outside, in the middle of the summer, and we were talking about something. All of a sudden, I blurt out that I don't feel safe in the house I grew up in. My mother looked at me incredulously. She understood then what I was going through.
         At the end of middle school, I went to Landmark High School, for learning-based difficulties, because I needed a change of schooling. My parents and I felt it would be a good fit for me since Weston Middle School didn't do much for me. I went into Landmark scared and child-like. What I mean by child-like is I remember hugging my teachers. I know embarrassing right, but, at the time, I didn't know any better. I took a Pragmatics class and then I understood that wasn't what I was supposed to do so I stopped. I still was set in my way of thinking, but I was slowly understanding, with the help of my tutorial teachers and my advisors, my thinking was essentially wrong. I needed to think about happiness and what had to motivate me to become a better student.
         I am now 21, graduated from middle school and high school, and I admit life hasn't been filled with rainbows and unicorns, but I haven't had a lot of moments where I was truly angry. Of course, I have had moments where I got angry at the smallest thing now and then, but only occasionally. My past has shaped who I am now. It has made me become a stronger, loving, and hard-working person. Without the experiences in the past, I wouldn't have the self-confidence I have now. I'll admit I blocked out most of my past, or so I think, so I could enjoy the present. My past hasn't and will not stop me from reaching my fullest potential and from being sad because I have reflected on those moments.