Night Creative Writing

I sat still, petrified, in the darkness of my room, silently watching the hours tick by like seconds as it approach the early morning. It had been since 10 o’clock that night, to which I sat in my bed. I wished I could sleep, but I was too tired to sleep. Too tired to count the sheep, yet too awake to let my eyes close and grant me that which I longed for; for the time to pass. But there was no such relief. Just me, my mind, and the quietness. Thoughts raged through my mind like the waves of the ocean against a cliff. Regret was present within me, as well as a sorrow that was foreign to me, both of which weighed down are my soul. Losing my neighbor Donald Finch woke me up, brought me to the sudden coldness and heartlessness of reality.

It was a cool June night, the sun’s light had completely faded off the horizon, leaving behind only a misty dimness to cover all that interluded beneath it. As my father prepared dinner, I sat on the dark brown couch, tired and worn down from my outdoor recreational activities. The smell of steak, corn, and baked beans filled the air, which caused a hunger within me that was waiting to be satisfied. As the dreariness of the time passed by, my eyes

None of the kids came out. It felt wrong, both the thought of going beyond the shelter of the walls of my house, and not to. I’d gotten so used to running out the front door right after breakfast, grabbing a soccer ball and starting the day, that it felt odd staying in. eventually the solitude became overwhelming, and I had finished grieving alone, now it was time to heal. I went outside, rallied all of us children and we sat next to the tree in my front yard, our favorite relaxing spot on the street, and talked about it. There were no tears this time, for everyone had their fair share of crying rivers. We helped each other mend the pain, and used this as an opportunity to unite and get through this together, and so we