He walked past them, and he kept walking. He walked down the hall and rushed into class. “Late again, Mr. Andrews,” the teacher commented. Another detention was assigned and the day moved on. He pushed and shoved through the line of younger students to buy lunch quickly and rushed into detention with his lunch in one hand and a soda in the other. “Late again, Mr. Andrews,” the teacher commented. And another detention passed.
Two years later, in high school, he pushed and shoved through the hallways struggling to arrive at class in time. Yet stopping occasionally to smile at a girl, the shrill bell rang. Sprinting to class, he slipped in, almost unnoticed, but nervous that he was, the books cluttered. The teacher looked up and observed, “Late again, Mr. Andrews,” marking the wide book lying in front of him. Another grade dropped, another teacher was annoyed, yet life moved on.
College came, classes came and classes passed; life moved on. Tests were trudged through, life was trudged through, but somehow things just kept moving. Coffee in one hand, a book in the other, he ran as fast as he could, creeping in as quietly as he could. Yet noticed, as he often was, the professor sneered, “Late again, Mr. Andrews,” dropping a failing paper on his desk. Apologizing as always had, through middle school, high school, and freshman year… Somehow though nobody listened, he was always just a moment too late, yet life kept going, as it always did.
Getting a job, as most adults did after college, he worked as hard as you could expect. Four years in college, twelve in school, he had learnt to work like most young men would have. Racing down the streets of the city, a briefcase in his hand, he sped up the stairs, and slipped into the office. Eying him suspiciously as he often did, his supervisor snickered, “Late again, Mr. Andrews,” a gleam in his eye. Life moved on, as it always did. Jobs were lost, life was often lost, but somehow things kept going, life kept moving.
The phone rang, reaching over his desk he looked up at his supervisor, a cynical smile on his face. Cell phones were not permitted in his office, late as he often was; his boss was awaiting an opportunity where Mr. Andrews could be asked to leave. He was just too much of a bother. This was the time, he was asked to leave. Striding down the halls, his head lowered, he checked the messages, his fiancé’s voice had quivered as she had begged him to rush down to the hospital.
Stepping on the gas pedal, he found the car to be steering itself. A few minutes later, he arrived at the reception desk. Upon questioning, he was guided to a room ahead of the winding halls. A man in a white coat cleared his voice, and lowering his eyes uttered, “I’m sorry Mr. Andrews, you were jut a bit too late.” A little late, always too late, that was who he was. Only this time life didn’t move on as it always did. This was the end.
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Submission Name: Late...
