High School Descriptive Writing

Words: 1138
Pages: 5

I am fifteen, and he is seventeen, and the world isn't what we dreamed it would be. Tonight the air is almost crisp and clean. It would be if it wasn't for the smoke tainting our oxygen. The smoke fogging the view of the faint constellations and near sunrise. The smoke filling his lungs with early death. Around us birds chirp, announcing the rising sun as it stains the backyard like a child splattering gold paint. His eyes glimmer in the new found light the same way the empty beer bottles now seem to glow. The same bright blue as my own. He lifts the cigarette from his lips and puffs out another gentle stream of the nauseating scent. I don't know how he got the packet; he's not eighteen yet, but I never ask. "It's already morning," …show more content…
Making his way to the edge of the porch, he tosses the butt into a worn pot. The porch door opens and he swings around before leaning against the rust red railing. Very casual. Our mother comes through the door with sleepy eyes and tangled golden hair. "What are you two doing? It's five in morning! Somers, school is starting in a few weeks, you have to get your sleeping schedule in order." "That's what sleeping meds are for." I'm not even allowed to take those anymore. "You're not even allowed to take those anymore." Dang it. "That's what weed is for." I snicker at my brother's input in the conversation. She turns to him for the first time since her entrance. "Don't you dare corrupt your sister-" "-brother," My brother interrupts. "She's-" "-He's," She sighs in defeat, "he's our last hope." I can't help but smile at his corrections. Sam always has my back, and in return I forget the slurred drunken shouts of "faggot" and "weak pussy-ass mother fucking gay-ass tranny bitch" from him and his …show more content…
The morning is dark and dreary, echoing my own demeanor as I walk to school. We're already late, but it's not like we care. It's cold and clean. Every breath welcomes the assault of wintry air. I can feel it sting my throat. It sobers me into the present moment as if the numbing whirlwind froze the river of continuous thought in my mind from raging rapids into a crackling walkable pathway. The moments I know I'll remember.
I jump across the sidewalk, avoiding the cracks, as he walks patiently behind me. Some part of me dares to hold onto my shreds of innocence despite everything. I swear the moment I land on a crack is the day I become an adult. The scenery means nothing after so many years. Each boring house is familiar, the fading colors, dying grass, and sleeping faces bundled for warmth in sleeping bags and found clothes. We always lived right where the bright fast-paced city life style clashed against the close-knit family neighborhoods in a chaotic scramble of humanity. "Uncle Carl is dead." I turn to look at him, surprised by his sudden