Thread: Homework

Brittany arrived home at three-thirty, just like any other day. She kicked her sneakers off by the door and pulled the band out of her hair, letting it cascade down her shoulders like a sleek brown waterfall. She considered changing out of her skirt and into pants, as her bare legs had been cold all morning, but the cloud cover had broken around noon and the house was warm enough to keep the skirt. She did, however, release the top two buttons of her blouse, which had been constricting her neck like a choke chain all day. She was no longer interested in impressing anyone school was over and although Katie had offered to come over and keep Brittany company, she had declined, citing a large assignment she had to work on. Retrieving a snack from the kitchen, Brittany threw her backpack onto the living room sofa and plopped down beside it. Turning on the television, she pulled her school binder out of the pack and opened it. Her assignments for the day were inside, sitting atop a stack of pictures she would eventually have to go through. Selecting one for her senior yearbook picture had already proven to be a difficult task. She turned her attention to her firstand biggestassignment. It was due a week from today, but she wanted to get it done and over with. She had to write an essay about the hardest experience of her life, and how she dealt with it. The page, up to this point, was blank. Sitting back against the cushion, Brittany nibbled on the end of her pen and channel-surfed. There wasnt much to watch. SpongeBob on Nickelodeon, some court shows, talk shows, infomercialsleaving the television on a random channel, she tried to concentrate. What was the hardest experience of my Brittany felt the color drain from her face. Her heart skipped a beat and her stomach did somersaults. The images came creeping up into her consciousness, bubbling from the depths of the darkest recesses of her mind. The man in her bedroom. The rope on her wristsknotted just loose enough to open. The cell phone on her bedside table, left there as a form of torture. A desperate nine-one-one call. Then hands all across her, feeling herher own hands behind her back once more, as she pretended they were still tiedand the flashing blue lights on her curtains. Brittany shook the thoughts aside. She thought of the time her cat had died when she was nine years old. Scribbling The Loss of my Dear Friend Abby across the top of the page, Brittany set to work and became immediately immersed in the essay. The sky grew dark as the afternoon crept along and finally disappeared under the shroud of night. Brittany did her essay by the light of the television until it was a strain on her eyes, at which point she turned on the lamp on the table. There were two empty cups of yogurt on the table and her butt was sweaty from sitting on the couch for so long, but the essay was already half-complete. Figuring she had earned herself a break, Brittany settled back into the cushions once more and planted her stocking feet on the table. If her parents were to catch her with her feet on the table, they would probably have a fit--but like any other night, they would be working until ten at the latest. Brittany had time to relax. She let her mind wander. Apart from selecting a senior picture, there were still so many things to do college essays and applications, organizing the last few student council fundraisers, making it to her volleyball game on Sundaythe list went on and on. The television snapped her out of her trance. Sometime in the past hour, it had turned from a Shake-Weight infomercial to the local news when apparently the bus skidded off the road and into a ditch. Known as the Sussex Prowler, he was convicted three years ago for the abduction and rape of eleven women, as well as the attempted abduction of a local fifteen-year-old girl who managed to escape and call the police Brittany broke out into a cold sweat as she saw his picture displayed on the television screen. His face was the sameit had haunted her dreams for countless nights. In the days following the break-in, she couldnt close her eyes without seeing that cold, emotionless stare. The pen trembled in her hands as adrenaline coursed through her body. How could they have forgotten to tell her hed escaped? Why wasnt she the first to know? A voice in her ear Need help with your homework?