Eight Fiftysix P.M.

• Sophie Hamdorf, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2013

I couldn’t take it.
The name-calling. The harassment. The pain.
It was a struggle to even drag my empty shell of a body out of bed in the morning.
Why do I even bother? I thought as I walked down the wide school hallway.
No one cares anyway. I stopped in front of my locker and robotically entered the code for my lock. The quiet ‘click’ of the lock opening echoed throughout the empty hallway.
Empty. Just like how I feel. I thought bitterly as I opened the stiff locker door and pulled out my schoolbag. I stuffed my books into the old, grey bag and zipped it up. Closing my locker with a slam, I turned around to face the hallway. It was dark. I’d stayed behind to study in the library. I shivered as I pulled my scarf up to cover my runny nose and dry mouth.
“I hate winter,” I murmured into the soft fabric. I shifted my schoolbag to the opposite shoulder and quickly walked down the hallway. I flipped open my phone and checked the time. 8:42pm.
Late. Again.
I trudged out into the schoolyard, my footsteps coming as a soft “pit pat” against the cold brick floor. I walked up to the old, steel gates baring entry to the school. Heh. I thought as I walked through the rusty entryway and out onto the footpath. They look like an entrance to a prison.

I checked my phone again. 8:48pm.
“Damn it,” I swore under my breath. I was going to have to run most of the way home now.
I started running as fast as I could towards the direction of my house. My breath came out in short, raspy bursts. My footsteps leveled out to match the beating of my heart. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
Eventually I came to a crossroad. I bent over, hands on knees trying to catch my breath. Panting, I checked the time again. 8:54pm.
“Oh no,” I whispered.
Slowly, I leaned up against the stop sign. I brought my hands up to my face and started to cry.
I’d broken my curfew.
My parents were going to kill me.
I’d broken my curfew.
My parents were going to kill me.
I sank to my knees in despair. I couldn’t take another lick of the belt. I COULDN’T.
I’d have to go to school with the same open wounds. I’d have to bare the phone-call home and all the pointless counseling sessions that would follow.
I breathed out slowly and stood up. Dropping my schoolbag to the ground, I walked forward to the beginning of the freeway.
Maybe I won’t make it home after all. I smirked. They weren’t going to win this time.
I walked slowly out onto the road, one step at a time, into the flow of the oncoming traffic.
“Looks like you’ve lost the game.” I mumbled. My phone fell to the ground and flipped open, displaying the time.
8:56pm.
The time I died.