White Hell
By J. L. Young

Seven o’clock A.M., Monday morning. I think.

Pain has found me again. It always does when I’m conscious. Could it be the stress I put on my body the night before playing football? I pushed through the pain and hoped the shower would somehow assuage it. It never did.

The closet door, if I had to guess, cherry wood. It had suffered fire or purposefully set ablaze to crackle the stain. It could have been my imagination, but I could feel the warmth that came off the wood. The clothes that hung within served to cover me, granted, without any thought to style.

The kitchen, plaster walls painted pastel blue with a yellow linoleum floor with a thin, crisscrossing gold pattern flanked by oak cabinets. There, I fixed something to eat, cereal with milk, the old standby. I rinsed the bowl and moved to the front hallway where my coat and books were hung. I quietly moved, not disturb my father sleeping in the bedroom nearest to the front door.

The morning sun reflected off the freshly fallen hell. The clank of tools to the east drew my attention. Men worked over an open manhole. A typical blizzard had struck. Since it had rained the night before, I suspected ice. It was strange, the administrator didn’t call school for the day. I dared not take the sidewalk as it was never cleared off. Instead, I walked the ruts made by the morning traffic.

Southward, I walked the one point two miles to school. Once through the doors, I made my way to my locker. I hoped my tormentor and his cronies didn’t make me before I reached my first-period class. I was late, as usual.