Mud

Another short story I did for my Creative Writing class(:

My hand ran along the white picket fence as I slowly trudged along the sidewalk. I hummed as I walked, a song my mom used to me to bed with every night. I didn't know the words, but I knew the melody, and it was a lovely, peaceful melody. My pink backpack lay across my back, my school supplies all safe and secure inside it. The fence soon came to an end and my hand had nothing left to trace. Thomas was sitting on the other side of the fence alone, playing in the mud.

Fearfully, I took a step in the mud, some of it splashing over my legs, and said, "Hey,

Thomas."

He looked up at me, mud dangling from his open mouth. He didn't say anything; he

just looked at me with a mixture of awe and confusion.

It was the same thing everyday. I would come home from school and see Thomas

alone in the grass or mud, I would try to be nice, but there was no use.

"What are you doing?" I said trying to make conversation.
A loud "huh?" escaped from his dirt encrusted lips.
"Forget it," I whispered, mainly to myself, and I trudged along home.
I came home to the messy living room of my messy house. Broken, chewed up toys

of my brothers lay in a cluttered pile in the corner. Footprints of dirt stained the gray carpet. Stains my mom never even bothered to clean up. My mom was in the kitchen, attempting to wash dishes. I walked into the kitchen and plopped down on the nearest chair, lightly tapping my fingertips on the wooden counter top. My mom had become suddenly very interested in the plate she was cleaning.

"Mom," I finally said after a long silence. "He's out there again."
After a minute of ferociously scrubbing the plate clean, she finally set it down.

She closed her eyes tightly and said,"I know, honey." She then moved on to the next plate.

"Why?"
"He likes the mud." She was humming, the same tune I would always home on my

way back from school, the same tune she would sing me to bed with before he was born.

"What's wrong with him?" I finally asked. Ever since he was born seven years ago, I

had never yet known what exactly was wrong with him.

"What do you mean?" My mom still had that fake smile spread across her lips. I

hated that fake smile.

"Something's wrong with him. I wanna know what."
My mom paused for a bit, then said, "he's just different...that's all."
"Well, why can't he be normal?"
She put her hand to her chin and stared up at the ceiling for a minute. "Not

everyone can be as wonderful as you, honey," was all she could come up with.

The front door squeaked open, causing both my mom and me to turn our heads

to the front door. Thomas stumbled inside, his legs wobbling with every step he took, leaving a trail of mud behind him. He didn't say anything. He sat down near his pile of distorted toys, and played with the old, dented up toy fire truck that lacked three wheels.

"Vroom, vroom," he said as he balanced the truck on its on wheel and made it

drive through the living room.

"Tommy!" I screamed in anger.
Anger swept over him face as he put his hand over his ears and rocked back and

forth on the stained carpet. "It's Thomas!" He screamed, his voice piercing my ears. "THOMAS!"

I grabbed him by the arm, my tight grip sending him into even further hysterics.

"Stop it!" I screamed. "Don't do this! Not now!" I dropped his arm, letting him quiver in the corner. The mud from his mouth dripped down his dirty chin and hit the carpet adding yet another stain my mom would never bother to clean up. What was the point? And I ran away leaving my hideous brother to sulk in the corner, tasting the gritty sensation of mud.