The Crime and the Punishment

The Crime
         Driving home from school, my thoughts overwhelm me as a list of tasks run continuously through my head like tickertape.  By the time I arrive at home, I wonder if my head could explode.  I need rest.  I run upstairs to put on my PJs, race back to the kitchen to grab a slice of fresh-baked banana bread, and finally flop on the couch.  I sit, flipping through channels since there is nothing worth watching on TV.  A small thought creeps into my head, a little voice, calmly suggesting I get off my butt and work on the mountains of homework that await me.  I shush the little voice, shoving the speaker into a far corner of my brain.  There would be time.  Later…
         After an hour on the couch I am able to pull myself up and drag myself… to the computer, yet another screen with a gravitational pull stronger than that of the earth itself.  I open a word document and then minimize it.  The friendly iTunes, AIM, and internet explorer icons smiled at me.  The work will wait…
The Punishment
          Before I know it, the clock displays a time with four digits.  It is then that I begin a stare-down with the first evil, my backpack.  We look at each other for a good five minutes before I give in.  I drag my heavy burden to the computer desk.  The punishment has begun.  I realize I have this incredible thirst.  My throat is parched and surely I won’t be able to think clearly.  The clock’s red numbers glare at me, the power of time preventing me from getting up.  My head whips back down as I try to refocus on the problem at hand and I suddenly realize that sleep deprivation has negative affects.  My head pounds, sending my thoughts in all directions.  I attempt to recollect them, only for them to scatter again with each pulsing vibration.  I consider going in search of medicine, but the clock won’t let me.  He stares at me, reminding me that the four digits will soon turn back to three.  I must keep going…
         For a time, my hand grips the pencil as I sloppily scratch numbers into my notebook.  My head remains bent for a time, but I can feel the clock watching me.  I cautiously glance up, and immediately wish I hadn’t.  His stony stare is stern…
Now my fingers clumsily peck at the keyboard, frequently missing the intended key and making it necessary for me to re-enter half of what I type.  My eyelids blink persistently, but in vain, attempting to bring tears to my parched eyes.  I glance hopefully at the clock, but he stares bitterly back.  He is not my friend; he gives me no hope…
         As he stares at me, I begin to get angry.  Why isn’t this clock on my side?  We look at each other, and a realization washes over me.  Had I appreciated him, he could have been my friend.  For those who use time wisely time is a friend.  Time is good to those who are able to plan.  Time is not at fault.  It is me.  Time is a gift that I’ve wasted.  And now I must be punished.