The ditch when seen seemed small enough.
Yet that is when you aren't being asked to jump down it.
Or being forced to. Or being pushed into.
I was wearing my white pants that day. A constrast to the dirt.
The bus dropped me off at the bus stop, along with others.
But instead of going home I was being asked to jump down that ditch. Being forced to.
I didn't want to. I really didn't. The ditch seemed never ending.
The bottom, dark, full of dirt, stones.
But before I knew it, there I was standing at the edge. Staring down.
My stomach turned. Nausea getting a hold of me.
Was it the prospect of the jump that really made me nervous?
I held on. I wasn't going to jump. I was not going to let them make me jump.
A step back. A yelp, a taunting word.
And then a push.
I was flying. And then falling.
The smell of dirt filling my nostrils. Its taste on my mouth. The stones piercing.
Yet the laughter was worse. Far worse. And then salty tears.
A few moments. In that turmoil. In that awkward position.
Eventually the laughter ceased. Everyone had left.
A deafening silence.
A new calamity. How to get back up.
How to get back up.
How?
