Heron Lake Plateau another five more short graybles

Screech had a pretty bad memory for certain things. He had this bad habit of rewriting the history of his own experiences to suit the moment, but beyond that, he'd convinced himself of various "truths".

The "truth" that he had done something irredeemably bad to warrant the negative view from his family.
The "truth" that he would never amount to anything more than what he already was (an asshole, an unlovable loser, a waste of space). And finally, the "truth" that his sister would always surpass him.

Each of these thoughts sat on a mental pyre which he fed, little by little, with the kindling of his doubts and errors. At this point a match was ready to be struck and those pyres were ready to burn — but he held off on doing that (knowing fully that sticking around might be futile, and that he might be one of those unfortunately doomed souls that would have to start over one day, regardless of the efforts). Instead, today, in this moment, he took a breath — and with a holler, tore across the plateau at full-tilt until he went crashing through the shallows of the lake.

He was causing enough ruckus to startle a flock of ducks into motion. A little ways away there was a blue heron, and it lifted its long beak from the water and took off too, bothered by the noise and probably eager to find somewhere quiet to fish. The boy snapped carelessly at the fleeing bodies of the fat ducks, missing the wing of a tawny-colored female, and then wheeled about chasing after some of the sleepy, fat, green-headed males. The younger ducks waddled and called in desperation while mature ducks took flight or zoomed for the deeper water, but Screech didn't care. He was venting his frustrations. He was having some fun, even if he had to do it all on his own.