Allstar

By Sophia Torren, age 11
Allstar

“Jason,” my fake mom says, “I made pancakes.” Her voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard.
“This isn’t real!” I yell. I run faster until trip on something. Then I’m falling again into the black nothingness.
Beep…beep…beep, a monitor reads. “

“AHHH,”  I scream. I am falling and falling into the dark unknown. I hit something soft, like fur, and cushiony, like a pillow. I am so scared to open my eyes, but I do it anyway. I seem to have landed in some sort of moss bed.   

“Jason,” I hear a girl’s voice. I whip around. I see a beautiful girl about 15. She is tall and willowy, she has long auburn hair and a few freckles. She sort of looks familiar. You are probably about as clueless as I am right now. First things first, my name is Jason. I am 15 and  one of those boys who would rather do an art project, or read a comic book, than play dodgeball or field hockey. I am tall, lanky, and I have dark brown hair. The girl, compared to me, is like a greek goddess, and I was a bridge troll.

“Come on, Jason. I’ve been looking for you for hours, your mom wants you to come home,” she says.

“Who are you are you?” I ask.

“It’s me, your girlfriend, dummy,” she teases.

“My what,” I say

“Your girlfriend,” she says slowly.

“Ookaay,” I say.

We walk back to my house. It looks normal, thank god. I walk inside and smell something amazing. It smells like food. I bet my mom ordered takeout … agian.

“Hey, there’s my all star football quarterback champion!” my dad says.

Football… champion? I am the worst at football. Everytime we play it in gym, my mind always drifts away and I end up getting hit in the face. I look around the room. Where there is usually family photos and awkward christmas cards, it is decorated in pictures of me in soccer jerseys or holding trophies  

“Bye Jason,” my girlfriend says as she leans in to kiss me. I don’t kiss her, instead, I awkwardly hug her and sadly she leaves.

“Jason, you’re just in time for dinner,” my mom says happily.

“What restaurant did you order this from?” I ask.

“Restaurant, no, no, no. I always cook dinner for you when I get back from work.” she says.

I shudder my mom is a terrible cook. She can’t even cook the boxed kraft mac and cheese. I halfheartedly sit down at the table. I look up to see that we are having chicken parmesan, one of my favorites. Whenever we go to a italian restaurants I always order it. My mom serves me a piece, I cut myself a bite size piece and nibble at it. It is so good! It’s like a chicken parm roller coaster.

After eating four pieces of chicken parm, and three brownies, I am stuffed. I walk to my room feeling tired after the meal. I walk in and turn on the light. I look at the walls and shelves. Instead of my books on the shelves and superhero posters on the wall, there were sports trophies and photos of me and my girlfriend. Then I pass out.

 

I wake up. It is 1:30.

“Okay,” I say to myself reassuringly. “There has to be a logical reason why this is happening,” I say to myself. But it’s late and my eyes won’t stay open.

 

“Help this kid needs air!” a man yells.

“He needs to go to a hospital” Another man yells. Sirens wail, people wail.

“My poor baby,” a women says. I see the body all bruised and bloodied. Then I see the face.

It’s me.

 

I wake up screaming. I jump out of bed and I run.

“Jason,” my fake mom says, “I made pancakes.” Her voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard.

“This isn’t real!” I yell. I run faster until trip on something. Then I’m falling again into the black nothingness.

 

Beep…beep…beep, a monitor reads. I open my eyes and I look around. The walls are white, and mechanical objects are all around.

“He’s awake!” a man says.

“Oh my baby. My beautiful boy,” my real parents say as they embrace me.

“W-what happened?” I ask.

“You were crossing the street and you got hit by a car. You’ve been in a coma for three days” My parents said.

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