Creative writing

Creative writing – By Dharma Bratley 1Eng5:

“‘Justice? – You get justice in the next world, in this world you have the law.’ To be fair, I really should have thought of this before I did what I did. But of course, I didn’t.” I confessed. I didn’t really know where to start, I just knew I had to keep going. I had to keep going, because I had to get out of here. I had to continue on through the endless, darkened moratorium to freedom.
. . .

The train slows, indicating that we were pulling into the next station. As people start to file in like electricity through a wire, I looked out the window at the people buzzing around the platform, as if it were a hive.
We began to move again, slowly forward out of the craziness of the station and toward the open plains of endless fields and the wrath of the midday sun. It was then that I looked up, and my eyes popped out of my skull. Who should be standing there but my worst nightmare. He stood so tall that my face was placed in a shadow of fear. He had tanned skin covered in tattoos, and a bruised and scarred face, a victim of his endless fighting years. I noticed a scar just above his left eye, and recognised it as a little souvenir I left the last time we fought. The last time I fought. The fight was my last of many, and signified the end of my promising golden career.
“Well, well, well. Look who we have here ladies and gentlemen,” he sneered to the crowd, making large gestures with his hands, as if to entice innocent onlookers. “Our own little golden boy, back for another round, maybe?” I just stared at him.
“Now tell me,” he sat down next to me, our faces level, “why did you give up fighting after our little round? Too scared of what I’d do to you next time? Or did you simply have a sudden realisation of how weak you really are?” He smiled an evil little smile, his yellow stained teeth poking out at odd angles through his grey little lips.
I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t know what to do. We had just pulled into the next stop and the doors were wide open, welcoming me to the safety they provided through their deadly metal claws. I could do it, just run away. I could simply get up, leaving him sitting there with that too small smile stuck on his grotesque face. I could run as far away as I wanted, and make sure that this time I’d never bump into him again. That left one other option open. The option to fight him. To get it over and done with, just watch as he wriggled with pain along the trains flooring. I could fight, or I could run. For some people this decision would be easy, to decide whether to get beaten up, or simply run off and forget about the whole thing. But I’m not ‘some people’, I am me, and this decision was sitting on the verge of impossible.
I weighed up my options in my head. If I just got off the train, walked away, leaving him sitting there, no one would get hurt and no one would get into trouble. I can’t get into anymore trouble. I’m a good guy, I really am, I just always seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Unfortunately for me, so do the police.
Over the past two years I’ve been in too many fights, and if I get in anymore trouble, I’m almost guaranteed a prison sentence. This means that if I go with the other option – to fight him – it is not going to end well, and I will be the one that comes out worse. I know that I need to walk away and forget the whole thing.
But I can’t.
I turned around slowly, adding suspension, and punched him straight in the nose, then right into his already scarred cheek. I vaguely heard a few people yelling in the background, various forms of “oh my goodness,” and “what on earth are you doing?” but I blocked them out without thinking about it, and tried to ignore the cameras flashing around us. He suddenly realised what I just did, and started to fight back. A million things were running through my head at this point, but I couldn’t focus on anything at all. What am I doing? This was a stupid idea and I know exactly what’s going to happen.
Before either of us knew it, we were both carrying painful injuries and bloody noses.
I managed to kick him hard in the stomach, so hard that he fell hard on to the ground. A large bang echoed through the panicked carriage. My heart soared like a bird into the wide open skies, and I started to kick him everywhere I could.
He regained his composure, and rose, like a dead man from his grave. A monster of anger swirling around him, waiting to pounce on it’s next victim. He flew at me, a storm of rage. I managed to dodge a few of his punches and kicks but I got tired and he only seemed to be getting stronger. I wouldn’t be able to hold my ground much longer.
We had pulled into the next station and the doors began to open again, the train filling with artificial light. I ran toward them as fast as I could, but failed to notice the cloud of police officers waiting for our arrival, and fell straight into one of their arms. They all had straight faces and looked rather uninterested, as if they encountered two ex-boxers fighting on a moving train, threatening the innocent bystanders, everyday.
They boarded the train in a pack, and I watched as they removed him from the carriage too, in a slightly worse state than I was in, and took us both away in their flashing police cars. We began to move again, in the police car this time, slowly forward out of the craziness that had just erupted, and into the hoards of traffic that roamed the streets.

. . .

I stare straight ahead at the grey walls, waiting for their verdict. I’m sitting in an orange jumpsuit, and my hands are clasped together, almost painfully, through the thin metal handcuffs.
I study the man that holds my future between his teeth, and shudder to think what would happen if he said no.
Slowly but carefully, he opens his mouth and clears his throat.
“Mr Smith, we are here to determine what will happen to you, should you escape further charges or arrests. We have listened to your recount and have come to a conclusion.” He studies me, with a look of utter distaste.
“You are free to go.”


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