500 Word Reflection

I couldn't believe I was about to be gutted like a fish. For Christ's sake, I was only eleven years old, and I was terrified.

As sure as the midsummer day was hot, I was staring at two mexican boys not much older than I, each wielding a butterfly knife. I was convinced they intended to use them.

My best friend Skyler had only just left the park where we were practicing our golf swings. We kept our golf clubs and bikes behind a shed, so as to keep them out of the view of untrustworthy people.

Shortly following my friend's departure, I realized the sweat had been pouring over my face for some time. With both sleeves drenched from sopping the sweat, it was time to head home.

As I walked to the shed to gather my clubs, I heard footsteps on the large, loose gravel on the other side of the small storage unit. I turned to walk toward my bike when one of them grabbed my arm.

Yanking my golf bag out of my grip, he pulled his knife out of his pocket. His compatriot followed suit. "Oh, shit" was the only thing I could think.

They decided that my golf clubs and my bag would be sufficient loot and allow for my exit. My father had bought the golf clubs for me, so this started a brief internal argument. Having been very active in nearly all sports, I was sure I could outrun them. I only had to find a way to grab my golf clubs and jet before they were able to catch me.

"Someone's coming to help me!" I yelled, as I pointed behind them. They both spun around to see my would-be savior, and at that moment I went into over-drive. I grabbed the golf clubs, decided to leave the bike behind, and ran. I ran and I ran. I ran until I was sure my legs were going to detach from my body and leave me attempting to escape in an army crawl.

About halfway to my house, I recognized the grandparents of a friend of mine. "Mr. and Mrs. Viles! Help me, please!" I shouted. They quickly got to me and asked what was the matter. With a brief explanation of my story, Mr. Viles, with anger in his eyes, decided we would go back to the park and find the ruffians and get my bike back.

We found my bike behind a dumpster near the front of the park. With two bent handlebars, bent and broken spokes and deflated tires, I considered it a loss. Neither of the two I was accusing was in sight, nor have I ever seen them again.