“For the thousandth time, I promise you, it wasn’t me!” I screamed and stormed to my room. I’m seventeen, not five, I don’t spill and knock things to the ground on purpose.
Pissed, I slammed the door and went to my laptop. Why? Why does she always blame me for things? Why can’t she stop treating me like a kid? I mean, I get straight A’s at school, got accepted into Ivy League at seventeen, what more do I have to do to prove to her I’m no longer that fifteen-year-old who got caught making out with Steven Rainer in her room?
In Google, I typed, dog pound. About a dozen results came up, I clicked on Google Maps. Rubbing my hands, I muttered, “Excellent.” In my head, a plan was instantaneously formulated. Ever since my dad got mom that black puppy, mom had been blaming me for everything the dog did. The dog peed on the carpet, my fault, it tore up the furniture, my fault. Frankly, I just can’t take it anymore.
Five minutes later, I opened my door to see none other than Chester the dog on the other side. It gazed up at me with its large brown eyes and whimpered. At once, I felt my heart melt like ice. I sighed, bent down, and picked the puppy up. “What am I going to do with you?”
This is a response for Roger Shipp’s new flash fiction challenge, Flash Fiction For the Purposeful Practitioner. We are given the beginning of the sentence and we are to finish the story. I abandoned the word limit this week, not by much though, about 15 words.