I woke up with my head throbbing; pulsating. It felt as though a horse had realized some mud was stuck on the bottom of his hoof, and he tried to stomp it off. Only I was the mud.
The dry rotted seat inside the bumper car stuck to my sweaty skin as the humid weather seemed to melt me right onto it while I was asleep. I peeled myself off slowly and sat up, pondering what I should do next.
After a few minutes of blankness, I decided that I needed to find water. It had been almost two days since I even felt liquid on my tongue. I was malnutritioned, and my mouth contained less moisture than the Sahara Desert.
I started walking. I passed the broken down ferris wheel, the deserted cotton candy stands, and even the faltering remains of a roller coaster. The wooden structure of the "Thunderous Rage" was only a skeleton of what I imagined it was when it was in service. This was most likely the result of a few million hungry termites.
I left the premises of the abandoned carnival and began to follow an old dirt road to wherever it would lead me. I figured there wasn't any cars driving on the road anymore, but it was a good start towards reaching any sort of civilization. Laying down beside the road was a "Dead End" sign. Ironic, if you ask me.
When I was just five years old, my dad and I went on a road trip. It was a Saturday, and he was a little bit under the influence. A little bit meaning three times over the legal limit. I thought it was funny how he was driving; we were both laughing and having a good time. Until I learned just what a "Dead End" sign meant.
We went over an embankment; the car flipped over and over again until I didn't know which way was up and which way was down. By the time it was all over, I was in the backseat and my dad was somewhere outside the tangled mess of steel and iron.
Needless to say, after the crash, I was still alive. He, however, wasn't.
The dry rotted seat inside the bumper car stuck to my sweaty skin as the humid weather seemed to melt me right onto it while I was asleep. I peeled myself off slowly and sat up, pondering what I should do next.
After a few minutes of blankness, I decided that I needed to find water. It had been almost two days since I even felt liquid on my tongue. I was malnutritioned, and my mouth contained less moisture than the Sahara Desert.
I started walking. I passed the broken down ferris wheel, the deserted cotton candy stands, and even the faltering remains of a roller coaster. The wooden structure of the "Thunderous Rage" was only a skeleton of what I imagined it was when it was in service. This was most likely the result of a few million hungry termites.
I left the premises of the abandoned carnival and began to follow an old dirt road to wherever it would lead me. I figured there wasn't any cars driving on the road anymore, but it was a good start towards reaching any sort of civilization. Laying down beside the road was a "Dead End" sign. Ironic, if you ask me.
When I was just five years old, my dad and I went on a road trip. It was a Saturday, and he was a little bit under the influence. A little bit meaning three times over the legal limit. I thought it was funny how he was driving; we were both laughing and having a good time. Until I learned just what a "Dead End" sign meant.
We went over an embankment; the car flipped over and over again until I didn't know which way was up and which way was down. By the time it was all over, I was in the backseat and my dad was somewhere outside the tangled mess of steel and iron.
Needless to say, after the crash, I was still alive. He, however, wasn't.
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