Board Thread:Short Stories and Fanfictions/@comment-68.231.37.136-20190727155655/@comment-43316152-20190801182208

Keefe tumbled to the ground, skinning his knees and hands on the way. Nine-year-old him sat there for a second, getting his bearings, before sitting up and acessing the damage.

He winced. It was a pretty bad scrape, and bruises were already forming. And they hurt. Like a lot.

Even while he kept telling himself not to cry, a couple small tears slipped out anyway.

Keefe felt someone watching. He glanced up to see his father, nose wrinkled in disgust. "Get up." He scoffed. And walked away without another word.

Keefe brushed away tears, to pretend they weren't there.

He'd kinda hoped that his father would care, even a little. Help him up, or say 'What happened? Are you okay?"

Keefe knew it was a stupid wish. It'd never happened before. Why would it happen now?

So Keefe stood and brushed himself off, trying not to wince at the pain.

He'd have to do the same thing a lot.

Why not practice.