Fourteen. Some call me young man, others refer to me as boy. Not too many rely on me to do anything. Sometimes I feel non-existent, without room to talk, waiting for a turn. The relatives enjoy me enough, but their conversations seem so foreign, their smiles inform me when to smile back. But I've always looked past them, way past them, past the window, past the fence to the edge of the woods. Until now, nothing has caught my attention. Spending the summer with my grandparents has been less than thrilling and today will most likely be like any other.
I awake from a gentle breeze through an open window to the sound of music. I stare past the ceiling and listen to the sound of a guitar in the distance. My bed is as comfortable as it was when I went to sleep last night and getting out of it seems less of a priority.
35th place (out of 43) in the 12th Annual Interactive Fiction Competition.
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