Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Walking home from school, he thought about his younger brother, who died in a car accident last month, along with his mother.
He didn’t miss his mother very much. She’d been a drug addict and never paid attention to her two sons. She even pretended to ignore the scars on her older sons arms.
His father however was perfectly fine with both his son and wife dead, as long as he still had one of his sons to beat when he was drunk or angry it didn’t matter.
When he got home from school his father was home drunk, sitting on the couch watching TV as usual.
He went downstairs to his room in the basement and dropped his bag on the floor.
He walked over to his CD player and turned it on. He lay on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
He glanced over at his clock. 3:27 am. Staring at the clock he wondered, could I have fallen asleep? Or did the clock freeze or something?
Sitting up, he listened to see if he could hear his fathers TV. This wouldn’t really matter though, since his father often fell asleep in front of the damn TV.
The CD player was still going though, so he got up and turned it off, then walked upstairs into the living room.
There was blood on the floor, and behind the couch lay his now dead father.
His father’s throat had been cut and there was blood everywhere on him.
Kneeling down, he put his hand on his father’s still warm, bloody chest.
He felt no grief or sadness over the death if his father, although he did feel curious as to who killed him.
A cold fear gripped him suddenly and he felt a rope tighten around his throat.
He tried to kick at whoever was choking him, but all he struck was empty air.
As he struggled to pull the rope away from his throat, images appeared in his head; his best friend lay dead on the floor of his bedroom, knife in hand, wrist cut open. Another of his friends popped into his mind; he had a gun in his cold dead fingers and a bullet had gone through his head. A picture of his girlfriend with her eyes rolled back into her head, her lying on her back, skin pale, and lifeless. There looked like there was no explanation to her death.
The images still clear in his mind, he made one last attempt to fight his killer, a deep hatred and anger burning inside him. Slowly all of the life and energy disappeared from him.
Just as he thought he wouldn’t be able to hold his breath any longer, he was shoved down to the ground. Clutching at his throat, he gasped for breath, trying to look around and see who had been choking him, but saw no one.
A sudden dread filled his heart, and he knew with certainty that the images he’d seen of his friends were true. So why hadn’t it killed me? He wondered. He wanted to scream in rage, but still hadn’t regained enough breath in his lungs.
He woke up and found himself lying on his bed. Standing up, he glanced at his trembling hands and realized his father’s blood still covered them.
He felt a burning pain in his chest. Everyone he’d ever cared about and who ever cared even the slightest about him besides his brother. Their deaths had been made to look like suicide, but he knew better. None of them had been suicidal and never cut themselves like he did.
Suddenly he sat up in bed in a cold sweat, breathing hard. Looking at the clock he saw it said 12:01 am. He stared at his hands to see if there was still his father’s blood on them. There was none. Relief flooded into him as he realized it had all been a dream, and he would have another chance to make things right with his friends now that he realized how much he actually cared for and needed them.
He got out of bed and walked over to the mirror on his wall. He stared fixedly at his throat, which had fresh rope burns that were still raw and soar. Suddenly he began to wonder just how much of it had been a dream…
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i was bored...
A Beautiful Disaster at Tuesday, March 21, 2006