Creative Writing Collection

Noobs

       It was as if he was staring into a hypnotic vortex that stirred nausea within him, and he couldn’t look away no matter how hard he tried. Voices and time and reality began to fade away as he was left staring. Staring at what, you may ask. Why, at his amputated arm. Vincent was still quite new to this, even though his right forearm had been gone for months now, leaving behind a nub with a curved scar where the elbow would be.

       Vincent Namil: 18 years old/ male/ freshman in collage/ brown hair/ hazel eyes/ Native American/ Christian/ Major in: musical therapy (exchanged) – Major in (empty)/ Disability(s): amputated arm.

       The looks, stares, and whispers were something he got used to quite easily, but coping with one arm was harder than he ever imagined. Taking notes in class was difficult when writing with your left hand, considering he was right handed. Not having a second hand to keep the paper in placed proved a difficulty. Multitasking with one hand couldn’t be called multitasking, could it? He didn’t know. His friends and professors were sympathetic, but it didn’t lessen the struggle he still carried. The church prayed for his wellbeing and help in school, but no prayer could help regrow an arm. His scholarship was still intact for him to use it at any time he would use it, unless he’d apply for an easier collage….

       Now he couldn’t play videogames; he couldn’t even type up a paper without spending an hour or more and ending up with a sore, cramped hand. He didn’t want people feeling bad for him, but empathy was now how he got by with certain things.

       Vincent sat in his roommate’s swivel chair, staring at the dartboard on the wall as his toes moved him lightly from side to side. With his tongue peeping out from between his teeth, he squinted his eyes a bit, a dart in his left hand. After a few seconds, he threw the dart forth, though missed the board by nearly a whole foot. Cursing, he stood and plucked the blue darts from various points of the wall; one had actually hit the board, and the furthest dart was almost two feet away.

       The bell rang for third hour to end and passing to begin. Vincent smiled lightly as he plopped himself back into the seat. Evaner doesn’t have a fourth hour, he thought to himself as he threw another dart — miss.

       After a few more rounds of almost-dart, his roommate, Evaner Stike, stuck his head into the room with a wide, mischievous grin on his face. He had pale pink skin and bright orange hair, always seeming like a sneaky leprechaun. “Hey man, you ready?”

       Nodding, Vincent pulled on a sling of paint bombs and took a hold of a large paintball gun, already filled to its maximum of multiple colors. “Course I am.”