Still Standing (YoungWritersShortStory)

Still Standing

        Almost there.

        I hear the leaves crunching beneath my feet as I run towards my destination, my backpack slipping from my shoulders every now and then. The chilly October wind bites at my skin and I snuggle deeper into my linty and detergent scented sweatshirt. As I run, I admire the scenery of brightly colored trees aligned beside the small gravel path- it's so peaceful here; a charming change from the busy and crowded New York City main streets.

        I follow the winding gravel path deeper into the small woods and I slow down to a brisk walking pace, eager to find some consolation at my secret hideout. Minutes later I burst into a small enclosure, with a pond on the left side and tree branches that sprawl overhead, making a slapdash ceiling. Lillipads dot the pond's crystal water, and the combination of a soothing hum from insects and the dappled golden light from the sun peaking out from the tree branches create almost a holy sensation.

        I make my way towards the big oak tree by the pond and I slowly sit down at its base. Sighing, I remove my backpack from my back and rummage through its contents. My fingers found its object of desire, and gripped around it tightly. Its an autobiography of Ghandi; my birthday present from my dad. I was insanely addicted to Ghandi, and I'm still obsessed with him now. I suppose the reason being the way he handles conflicts; no violence, just using the most powerful object of all. Words. Which brings me back to my day at school.

        I'm strangely quiet at school; I'm one of those people that sit in the background without being noticed, and prefers to absorb knowledge rather than give away knowledge. Everyone has their own idiosyncrasies, but apparently mine stood out the most. Some of my classmates would flat out ignore or avoid me. Most would tease me or in some intense instances, truly hurt me. Shove my books to the floor. Insults about being emo. Whispers in the hallways like I couldn't hear them.

        But I don't fight back.

        Why? I don't know.

        I guess its built into my genes. Suddenly, an overwhelming sense of anger and frustration enveloped me.

        "I hate it!" I scream to no one in particular. My voice echoes throughout the woods. "I hate how parents say you can be who you want to be! They're all liars!

        "I hate it I hate it I hate it! I hate how the fates rolled the dice! I hate how I act!"

        But if everybody becomes who they want to be, it'll be utopia. Nice, but artificial. I can't just stop being shy. I can't just suddenly become stronger. No. If anybody says you can be who you want to be, tell them to go search up the word 'personality' in the dictionary.

        I drop my Ghandi book to the forest floor beside my backpack and curl up into a ball, with my knees at my chest. I will myself not to cry. After sobbing hysterically for a few moments, I gather my wits but still remain in my fetal position. I try to make my mind go blank; to just forget everything even for a few measly minutes.

        A positive thought came to my mind. I'm not strong, but I can be strong in my own way. I may not be physically strong, or superbly mentally strong, but I am unique. When they bully me, I don't break down. I won't let them see that they have fulfilled their goal of torture. That might not seem like much, but it is. Humans are petty compared to the universe, but we made our mark, and I made my mark through being me. Not changing because others want me to change is my own sort of rebellion.

        I uncurl from my fetal position, and realize it is getting dark. Wearily, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and stand up to stretch for a moment or two. Mom would be worried if I stay out here too long, so I set at a brisk pace out of the clearing. Just as I got to the edge of the clearing, I turn around to face the place where I have told all my troubles to. We're almost the same; this clearing and I. We both made it through the challenges in life; the clearing survived against the nature demolishing practices of New York, and I survived against...well...life.

        That may seem strange, but like most metaphors and other unworldly aspects of the universe, it's one of the most simplest ideas of all. Surviving against life; my own kind of rebellion.

        With a faint grin on my face, I set out for home.

A/N: Thanks for reading this! Please please please vote (after August 17)! I'm on my freaking knees begging you to vote! This is important, for I'm entering this for a contest. Thank you!