The light of the silvery moon sparkled as I lay beneath the sky listening to Bill’s fabricated recollection of previous events. Although, I’d already received an instrumental testimony on the matter I persuaded his beguile. That’s until little raindrops hit the slope of my nose followed by a downpour. Bill clutched my hand as we found shelter at the neighborhood’s corner store.
The tiny, tarnished bell rang as we opened the door and entered the store. The walls of the store were lined with shelves, holding every snack a kid or in my case, a woman could dream of. A clerk, on her way to the back of the store, noticed us and came to investigate. She gave us a swift smile and sauntered to the back of the store. Squeals and clatters could be heard, but the sounds were nowhere near what would be considered suspicious.
Slowly, we walked pass the shelf of little Debbie cakes and over to the freezer. Bill grabbed a bottle of Dasani and a Pepsi. I shivered as a cold breeze threatened my stance. Tipping over the chip rack I bent over in an attempt to clean my mess when I saw it!
There was a trail of blood leading to the back of the store. Bill must have noticed it, too. He pulled me behind him and acted as my protector. Neither of us spoke a word. We didn’t have to; our eyes did the talking for us. The backdoor of the store opened and shut which was confirmation that the killer had left the building.
Bill hastened to the back of the store. I didn’t want to move but I didn’t want to stay either. After a brief moment of weighing my options I followed swiftly behind and found him examining a discolored male. A few seconds passed before I realized I was holding my breath.
There were writings on the wall; the same writings that Bill had mentioned in what I thought to be a fabricated story. The fancy carving of the letters around the edges was identical to the carvings Bill described. Only the killer himself could be so precise.
Fear shot through my body like an electric shock as I starred at Bill, who was now starring back at me. He tilted his head to the side and studied me. We were that annoying couple who always knew what the other was thinking and finishing off each other’s sentences. I knew he was reading me.
I stood there with my feet glued to the floor and taunted myself. I was acting similar to a character in a Hollywood horror movie. You know the stupid one who gets killed. That was me.
His eyes glistened in delight as if in some twisted way feeding off my fear. My heart was now beating a maximum of one hundred beats per second. I thought I would die from a massive heart attack. Of course that would have been better than being murdered by my fiancé’.
I grabbed hold of a dust mop and gripped it like a McDonald’s big mac. He valiantly approached me, knowing my every weakness.
“Stop!” I yelled as my knees jellied.
He licked which I assumed to be blood off his fingers and laughed the most dreadful laugh. I began to swing the dust mop like a professional baseball player and cheered every time it smashed across his face. He grabbed hold of the dust mop with one hand and a handful of my hair with the other. Within seconds I’d been thrown across the floor, scraping both my knees and elbows.
I staggered to my feet and took crutch on an old antique desk. “Bill, please stop!”
He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. The look in his eyes guaranteed that I would be his next victim. He towered over me, threatening me with his size. I’d always liked the idea that he was so much bigger than I was but now I was beginning to have second thoughts. He tossed me around the room like a sack of potatoes, mocking me. I wished and prayed for someone to save me- for an Avenger to drop from the sky but all I got was bruises on top of bruises. I begged for him to end his torment, to end my suffering but my agony only seemed to feed his ego. I fought and managed to break free. Paying too much attention to what was in back of me I failed to perceive what was in front of me. I tripped over the discolored body and bashed my head into the wall. After a few minutes of darkness I awoke here. Locked away in hell’s cell trapped with the devil himself.
"Excuse me, could you give me a pair of chopsticks?" I averted my eyes to what had been handed me and realized they had been mismatched. I looked at the crowd in dismay. No point calling out again. Oddly enough, the story of J and KC came to mind in a flash. I should tell it.
Life has its definite depressing moments. I am sitting in my fiancé’s car, waiting for him, as he walks into a gas station to buy a beer. As he is going in, two old men are standing outside the door talking to one another.
Dr. P: “So.... it's been awhile since the last time you were in here. How old are you now?”
Me: “16. Well I turn 16 in a month, in December, so I'm 15, but almost 16.”
“Do you still play basketball?”
“Yeah but I'm not too serious about it. Mostly just a hobby now.”
“Are you still reading?”
“Yeah but not like I used to. Not as much. What I do read isn't as fun; I guess I just don't like that kid stuff anymore. It's gotten kinda boring. I mainly read realistic stuff, with deeper substance. Ya know what I'm talking about, right?”
“Yes I understand. And are you still writing?”
“Absolutely. I write all the time. Real deep stuff to, none of that baby stuff about birds that put out fires or talking dogs. I'm gonna be the next J.D. Salinger. Ya know the guy who wrote comin’ thro the rye.”
“Catcher in the Rye.”
“The title of the book was Catcher in the Rye.”
“Nope it was comin’ thro the rye. I remember, cuz the little girl was singing catcher in the rye but the right words was comin thro the rye.”
“True. Some people believe his misinterpretation of the poem was because he wanted to save everyone's innocence, but nonetheless the title was still Catcher in the Rye.”
“Whatever. Next question.”
“Why do you think all this has changed? You don't seem to be enjoying your old pastimes as much.”
“Oh I still enjoy them, it’s just different ya know? I’m just more mature about it ya know? We all gotta grow up sometime.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I guess it all started with my old stepdad.”
“You’ve mentioned him before but never in depth.”
Well, I haven't seen him since I graduated the 8th grade. I haven't spoken to him since the turmoil of the incident calmed down. My life took a turn around the middle of the 3rd grade. It was when my parents divorced, and my mom, my siblings, and I all moved from North Carolina back to Michigan. Before we left my dad told me that since my brothers were still young I would have to watch over them, as well as watch over my mom, and be the man of the house. At that age being “the man of the house” just meant being the oldest guy there so I get to be tough and that my little brothers had to do what I said.
I carried this mindset for a few years never really acting on it though, because it seemed like my mom had it all under control. A year after the divorce my mom introduced us to Will, her new boyfriend. Will... he was...a passionate type of fellow. He had the kind of passion that led to a lot of incidents that always involved yelling, threats, tears, and often times physical attacks. These incidents...they almost always came after some misunderstanding. Like I said he was very passionate, but what I didn’t tell you was, he isn’t very good at conveying his thoughts. I’m not really sure if he knew this or not, but I think he knew no one ever understood what he was saying and that pretty much pissed him off.
“Wait, can I say that?”
“Can you say what?”
“Pissed. Can I say pissed?”
“You can say whatever comes to mind.”
“So I can cuss!? I can say stuff like damn, and shit?”
“I won’t be, but you can.”
“Coool. Where was I?”
“Will was pissed because no one understood him.”
So he got really pissed because nobody ever knew what he was talking about. This led to a lot of yelling. He always yelled when he was mad, which was all the time, so he was always yelling. It got kinda scary ya know. Don’t get me wrong now, I wasn’t scared for myself, I was scared for my siblings, after all I had to protect them like my dad said. Anyways, when we first met him I was still really into basketball and I was positive that I would be going to the NBA and that I would be Defensive Player of the year, every season of my career. When Will first started “teaching me” how to play, he was pretty cool about it. He wasn't that great himself but he knew some stuff, so I humored him. Will took basketball way too seriously though.
“What do you mean he took it way too seriously?”
“I don't know, I guess it was one of those things where the dad thought they were gonna make it to the big leagues, then something happened that stopped them, so now they try to force basketball as a way of life on their sons.”
“Interesting. But didn't you want basketball to be your life? Wasn't that your big goal for the future?”
Well yeah, at least, that's what I wanted at first. Then he kinda scared me away from it.”
Whenever I would mess up, or he thought I was doing something wrong he would get real heated. He'd start with all the yelling and stuff again. A lot of the times he was mad because he said the way I was moving my body was to feminine and I had no control over my body. He would tell me ‘I ain't raisin no damn faggot’ then he'd hit me or if I wasn't right next to him he'd throw the ball at me.
“Ya know, I still remember something he told me, and it really caught me off guard.”
“What was it that he told you?”
“He said, and this is a direct quote, he said ‘if you don't play sports you won't have any imagination.’ ’’
“Was he right?”
“I don't know. I think I still have a pretty good imagination. Of course I'm still playing sports. My imagination isn't the same as it used to be, though.”
I used to read all the time. Real big books too. I read books like that series about the son of Poseidon. Who wrote that? Rick Riordan I think t was. It doesn't matter, what matters is that they were great, and I was always reading them. I guess Will didn't like that. By the time I met him my mom had declared that I would probably be some kind of famous writer, I didn't have a problem with that, and I don't think Will did either. His problem was that I was always reading instead of writing. He said that I was wasting my time helping other people live out their dreams instead of trying to live my own. I guess he was right in the sense that I was helping other people live their dreams, but he never actually made me write. Instead he made me help him write. He had decided that he would be a children's writer. He made me help him form his sentences right, but he never actually listened. Whenever I said something he didn’t like he would just get mad. He pushed me out of a chair once. Well, more like he pushed over me and the stool I was sitting on.
“Did you ever do any of your own writing?”
“Yeah, but he always told me it wasn’t good, or that I needed to write more realistically. I wrote this one piece about a boy who attacked his mean dad, and he thought he killed him but he didn’t and he later turned out to be a pirate.”
“What did he think of that?”
“I guess he didn’t realize I was making the dad out to be like him. He didn’t like it anyway. He said it wasn’t realistic. I never really understood that because his stories were about talking chickens.”
“You said you write more realistically now?”
“Yeah, I’m gonna be the next John Steinbeck.”
Now that I’m in highschool, a lot of the writing I do is required, but I still have fun doing it. I try to avoid kiddish stuff like what I used to write. I’m working on a piece right now about the shootings that are going on around the country, with police violence and all that type of stuff. That’s what’s going on the real world and that’s what I write about now. None of that romantic stuff that ignores the real issues. No more romanticism or anything like that.