It was  a hot day, and I hated everything. I hated the people, the pollen, the ungodly swarm of bees trying to turn me into Violet from that one Johnny Depp movie that people pretend to ignore. But most of all, I hated the hook stuck in my ankle. It stung like a hornet after I insulted his mother's cooking. Not to be clichè, but I'll start from the beginning for sake of plot and grade.

The day was particularly ordinary. Another hot summer day; hot dogs, video games, and fishing were all in abundance. And before you call me lucky for having the ability to fish on a whim, I'll pre-emptively strike in saying that we were not fishing out over the Gulf, or some lake. No, it was much worse. My grandparent's home had  abackyard that led to the neighborhood pond. Yes, we fished in a pond. No, we never caught anything. Actually, I'm quite sure the groundskeeper forgot to load up fish into the pond that year; not that they'd have survived, anyways. The water came from the corner of hell furthest from light, being brown and sometimes even purple. It was akin to the acidic solution Walter White dissolved a corpse in, and I haven't even begun to begin to describle the unholy stench. My family was desperately trying to catch a fish; one that probably didn't even exist. A phantom fish.

My grandmother, after a few glasses of wine, was passed a fishing pole. She then, rather clumsily, reeled it back, and then cast it out. The hook snaked across the dirt of the lake's edge before soaring into the air. Except, it never did. We all looked around in confusion. I got bored shortly after. Fishing wasn't that engaging, anyways. It was the Mary Sue of sports, if you could even call it that. My ankle, however, had other plans. I took one step from the lake's edge and let out a shriek akin to a banshee stubbering their toe on a toothpick stuck in the wall. I looked down, seeing that the fishing rod had followed me. I  broke into a mad dash, screeching. The fishing pole gave chase, my ankle flaring in agony. I stopped after about fifteen feet, panting. I hunched over, noticing a fishing hook in my sock, red marker surrounding it. What a day.