Bad Day (music class assignment)

Act I
The walls were thrashing, the floor spinning in place. The carpet was being pulled out from underneath me all at once. The posters on my bland bedroom walls were torn and ripped into confetti pieces.
I had a bad day.
I slammed the door. The hinges cracked and squeaked. I threw around anything I could grab and laid down on my bed. I closed my eyes. I opened my mouth to scream but nothing came out. I finally had a moment of relaxation realizing the day was almost done. I was drifting away. I didn’t have to lay here on this bed. Then I had moment where I realized the day was not done at all. I could go anywhere do anything I wanted. I could fly. I could dance. I could sing. Not well, but whatever I wanted. I opened the door and I ran outside. Shadows chased me into the woods nearby. The sun leaked through the trees and the cool breeze threw up orange leaves and dead leaves. The smell of soggy wood wound its way around the maze of forest and I was alone. The center of it all. I was done. I was there. There was nothing else to do but run. So I ran. I ran until my legs fell out from underneath me and then I kept going. Before I knew it I didn’t know where I was, but I kept going. The edge of the woods came near, and I almost reached it. I fell short as usual. Like everything else I tried in life I failed. I thought back on all the times I didn’t talk to her. I thought about all those people I mistreated and all the things I should have done with my life. I could have done anything. Now I was laying here on the wet leaves with my head against the soggy wood. The sun no longer kept me enlightened. The shadows became longer and the animals began to talk to each other. I was too far away from home to make it back before anything came out. Even without the sun, the moon and the stars were enough to keep me there longer. The endless void of broken glass we called the night sky filled every inch of my vision. Days seemed to pass. Now the shadows were reaching forward. The airspace was closing in on me.

Act II
I awoke on a ship. It was still night time, but the moon lit up the majestic red of the floorboards and the motions of the waves gently rocked me. I was on the front and I seemed to be alone. I didn’t trust anything here. Who knows how I got here? Yet, I seemed to explore. I noticed all the details. The fine, sanded wood ran between my fingertips. The boards underneath my feet refused to creak and the rooms looked like they had never been touched. I sat on the steps leading to the upper deck for quite some time. My elbows rested on my knees and I looked up down and around. No one was here for now. Suddenly cold energy rushed through me as if a ghost had gone through me. The feeling didn’t last long and I went down to one of the rooms. Paintings on that wall suddenly lost their color and the wood became dull. Crashes from the waves increased and I ran outside. My sneakers became soggy and water started to rise. Sails came crashing down and I could suddenly hear the screams of a thousand people. The brilliant red the ship once possessed was gone. Winds blinded me and I fell. I kept falling. The salty water engulfed me, but I continued to fall. The darkness called to me and no longer did I have control. My lungs burst and my eyes enflamed. I stopped resisting and let it take me. I’m now iced over.

Act III
“Think fast!”
My eyes opened and I could suddenly breathe. Food came flying at me. Cans of preserved fruit and vegetables landed in front of me. A flour soaked apron draped over my tattered clothes. As everyone else ran around me struggling to fill orders and putting together their dishes, I took a minute to look at everything. Again, the walls were painted a bright red, just like the ship. The floor was red as well. This whole time, I’d been thinking too much and wondering. The swinging doors kept slamming into the tables on wheels.
“Get him!”
Before I could look back, dogs had been released on me. What had I done? I didn’t even know where I was. I ran outside while people gazed as the dust trail of flour and sugar left them in a fog. I ran through this foreign town in a blind man’s fashion, choosing paths at random, running into dead ends as I heard the dogs bark closer. I took a left. A right. Another left. Over a fence and through a backyard. I ended up in a strange part of town. While the buildings back there seemed deflated and the street lights barely able to cut through the dust in the town, here was someplace quite out of place. Bright Christmas lights dangled from street lights and the dirt road was neatly in order. Market stands were still open from the day. I gave severe thought to picking up a tomato. I walked with the piece of fruit in my hand. Suddenly, the dirt kicked up and I heard the dogs picking up their pace. Would they ever give up? They went the other way I was left standing there terrified. What kind of thing had I gotten myself into? Where were these alternate dimensions I was in? I kept walking and left footprints behind me, kicking up the dirt. The barking returned and I started jogging. The lights seemed to fade and the homeliness disappeared. I ran. I tripped.
I woke in a padded room. Straight jacket on tight. Screaming gained no reply. The war between me and this piece of fabric went on for what seemed like several hours before I gave up. Sitting in the corner with my mouth now magically taped shut and my arms tied behind my back, I began to wish I was in the forest again. Running was my escape. Now I’m in a mental prison. I thought back on all the times I didn’t talk to her. I thought about all those people I mistreated and all the things I should have done with my life. I could have done anything. Now I was laying my head on a cushion designed for the most cracked of minds. I began to think deeper. The things I nitpick at are just not the same. Are they really worth picking apart? Should I really correct little things that bother me? Is that what I really really need to do? If I correct it, will something else just become more noticeable? Will correcting that period actually make it Shakespearean? Or is it the big picture? Is that Shakespearean piece really what's wrong with it? No matter fixing the grammar if it's going to end up no better in the end. Then again, maybe it makes all the difference. Maybe one rose on the doorstep can solve anything. Maybe one letter in her mailbox can help the situation. Maybe one tiny fit of rage will make something more understandable. It's hard to tell until someone actually goes through with those things. I'm not the best person in the world. I know for a fact that there are way better people out there than me. I know that I'm not always the most moral. But I know that I don't deserve this. Do I? Do I deserve to be in this mental prison reserved for those of writers? A place with imaginary people tapping me on the shoulder. Soft tunes in my head. Playing. Half slanted eye lids. Good times well lost? Time is a Lost and Found. My lost and found that will never rebound because someone keeps stealing it from me. Better thank who I want. Everyone knows it might be too late. Conversations with myself telling myself where to go with my life.
Is it too late for me?
I woke up in sweat. The posters still ripped into shredded puzzle pieces. The door still cracked down the middle. It was all a dream.
I had a bad day.
Maybe I should go outside and run.