Where do all the stories go that never lived?

(Chapter 3 updated)
So way back in high school, I wrote a first-person pov story about a crazy neo-nazi who had come into possesion of a briefcase with a nuclear detonator. The story detailed the tragedy of his first love (and how events led him to become a frothing racist), which was mirrored by him finding a new love. The new girl discovers he's a nazi and leaves him. In anger, he detonates the bomb.
I was very proud of this story; it was the most engrossing one I'd written to date. I was even prouder when I was asked to read it in front of the rest of my English class. I went through my narrative and finished with a satisfied grin. Then the kid two seats back says, "Hey Clay. Were you on crack when you wrote this?"
Anyway, that didn't dampen my pride in the story. But I'm wondering what happened to it. Where did all my childhood stories go? I've been writing since I was a kid.
The fourty page Road Dahl-esque fantastic adventures of the kids that discovered their next door neighbor was a brilliant scientist who had left his 101 potions to them when he died? Gone.
The pulp-fiction style sci-fi stories? Gone.
My first novel? Lost to the sands of time.
Each one a seed of brilliance. Each one a watershed in my creative growth.
I mourn the lost fiction.