Breaking Windows
I pulled back the strong elastic of the catapult
and let the stone fly out of the window and across the road.
Immediately
we ducked down, afraid of being seen if he stone reached its target and
smashed a window.
We waited. Was it safe? Slowly, Graham peered over the windowsill and
trained his binoculars on the houses across the street.
‘I think that missed’, he whispered. Load another stone and let’s go
again.
From his parents’ upstairs bedroom window, we’d been trying to smash
neighbours’ windows for about an hour.
Why? We were bored and this seemed like an exciting thing to do. We were
only 11.
We were also out of stones.
Just as we were about to go down to Graham’s garden to collect some
more, we heard my father’s angry voice calling us.
Graham and I looked
at each other in silence.
Had we been discovered by one of the neighbours?
We slowly made our way downstairs and saw my dad standing in front of
the open front door, his fists clenched by his side.
His eyes were large and scary. His face red with anger.
The neighbour in the house opposite had seen us firing stones from the
open window and told my father.
‘What have you been doing?’ He shouted. The vessels in his eyes bulging
red with blood.
He took me roughly by the arm and lead me across the road to the
neighbour’s front door.
I looked shamefully at the broken glass and the seriousness of the
situation hit me like a lightning bolt.
We could have seriously hurt
someone.
I rang the doorbell and apologized to my neighbour.
I promised to pay for the broken window from my paper round money and
swore that I would never do anything like this again.
My neighbour must have seen the look of shame on my face and accepted my
apology gracefully.
I did pay for the window and Graham and I found other ways to alleviate
our boredom.
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