“Who are you?” said the man with immense fear, because he was highly aware he was in great peril.
“Who am I?” I said back, with excitement, “No, no, you see, the question is, ‘who am I, now?’” He realized that I was imagining some horrors that I wanted to inflict upon him, and I could easily tell he knew by the look on his face. I felt powerful doing this, knowing that he was not able to retaliate. I stated with pure joy, “I am your worst nightmare!”

“He’s a smart kid,” said Mr. Skept, my English teacher, “He just doesn’t apply himself.”
I was tired of hearing that damn phrase. Apparently, so was Mom, “Is there anything that I haven’t heard that you would like to tell me?”
“I don’t mean to sound pessimistic, but I don’t think that there’s a chance for your son, Ryan, when it comes to him passing my class.” Mr. Skept did not sound "pessimistic", he sounded more uncaring. He sounded like it would it wouldn’t matter if I passed or failed. He sounded like he had better things to do, instead of helping out an “unapplied, intelligent kid”.
So, if you don’t care, about my education, why should I be here? I thought to myself.
I decided not to waste Mr. Skept’s time, and I walked out of the meeting.
I then faced another day of teachers looking down on me, feeding me the paraphrased words “You’re going to fail.”

I came home from school to get ready for work. I didn’t want to be late for my job, but Mom had a few pieces of her mind she wanted to give me, “What the hell was that all about?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean this morning. What were you thinking? Walking out of the meeting doesn’t help you or your class. Which, by the way, is another class you are failing.”
“I’m fully aware that I’m failing, again, Mom.”
“Where are you leading your life, Ryan?”
“How can I lead my life, if I don’t even know where I’m going with it?”
I walked out after giving her my thought, and drove to work.

I came home to hear my fifteen-year-old sister, Jessica, singing obnoxiously loud to her favorite kind of music. Her music was always lyrically dark, and it expressed an abundance of sadness, hate, heart-brokenness, and any other negative emotion, compressed into about a three to four minute punk rock song. I didn’t care what kind of music she listened to, but I didn’t want her to end up being ridiculed by Mom and our step father, Steve, for the music that intrigued her the most. I walked to her MP3 stereo system and turned down.
“What was that for, jerk?” Jessica was clearly unhappy for what I did.
“I don’t want you to get in trouble, for something stupid, like this.” I said to her.
“My music’s not stupid, asshole!”
“I’m talking about the volume of it, you idiot.”
With that said I walked out of her room.

The dinner table was actually four trays, in front of a family member surrounding the television. I never watched what was on; I always sat there thinking about things that I thought other people wouldn’t understand. One time I thought about the speed of darkness, not light; I wondered why light was the fastest thing known to man, but no matter where light went, darkness was always there waiting.

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This is the beginning of a short story that I am writng. I based this story off of a poem that I wrote. Please tell me how you think of it.