“It’s getting hot. Let me drive you guys.” My mom called from her home office.

“You know, I could always drive… the library is not that far…” I had to try.

“Nope. It’s only a permit. Besides, you know you can’t drive with your brother in the car.”

Crap. It’s only two weeks until my driver’s license appointment.

“Okay," I sigh loudly "We’re hoofin’ it. No big deal.”

“Wear hats and take water bottles. Text me when you get there. Keep an eye on your brother.” She pleaded, peeking her head out of her office doorway.

Like I wouldn’t. It’s all I ever do: keep an eye on The Oblivious One. My mom clings to worry like a talisman. As if letting it slip from her hands meant inviting “something bad” to happen.

“Okay, Safety Sue…” I mumbled under my breath, walking away.

“I heard that.”

Wow. How did she even hear that? Her hearing is as stellar as ever.

“Love you, Mom.”

“Bye Momma!” My little brother called out in his annoying Texan twang as we left. His voice had changed recently, but it still cracked in strange places when he spoke. Freaking hilarious when it did. And when is he going to stop calling her “Momma”, like a baby? Gross.

Dear God, please tell me I was not that awkward when I was that age.

We walked out of our planned community and onto the main road. Four lanes and a center turning lane. I wished I were driving instead.

I heard the honking ahead of us before I could see what was happening. The danger soon came into view. A white, flatbed work-type truck was driving erratically and too fast. Weaving into oncoming traffic, traveling in our direction.

SHIT. No time.No time.No time.

I looked at my brother, walking slowly—always so damn slow! Fumbling with his water bottle lid. Not even paying attention to his surroundings as usual! Can he not hear the commotion?! I felt instant annoyance and gripping fear.

Unless the truck suddenly did something completing unexpected and even possibly defied physics, it was going to hit us. Immediately. I thought about Trig class. Yeah. I didn’t need any fancy calculations right now to tell me we were about to get crushed.

No time.No time. We’re about to die RIGHT NOW.

I grabbed my little brother by the scruff of his t-shirt and by the back waist of his jeans. I hefted his thin body roughly over the guardrail on our right, swearing at myself for skipping the bench press lately. He let out a strangled, mixed cry of surprise and anger. His cry quickly morphed into noises of pain as he landed, tumbling violently down a slight embankment.

Tuck and roll, bro. Protect your face and head. We’ll worry about the rest later.

I heard the truck’s engine nearing as I remembered that hurdles were not my event. Turns out, they’re even harder to pull off from a standing position. I didn’t clear it. My left foot caught on the guardrail. I tensed up, not knowing which impact to expect first: the ground or the speeding truck.

Time’s up.

I know a lot of people say their lives flash before their eyes when they are in mortal danger. That wasn’t the case for me. Besides rapid-fire associations having to do with the immediate situation at hand, all my memories were of my little brother:

Feeding him as a baby.

Helping him take his first wobbly steps.

Cutting food in half and giving him the smaller piece.

Pushing him on the swings at the park.

Me taking his Legos.

Him taking my Naruto books.

My jealousy of how he could pick up any instrument and play it skillfully.

The two of us sneaking candy into the movie theater.

Laughing at stupid videos together on family road trips.

All I knew at that moment was that I could not let anything happen to him. I didn’t even think of myself for once. I thought of the worry in my mom’s eyes this morning before we left. I thought of how I’d rather die than have to tell her I had lost my little brother.

I tumbled hard as the sound of twisting metal and splintering wood took residence in my ears alongside the pounding whoosh of my rapid pulse. I had come to rest in a patch of fading bluebonnets, hurting, but alive. My little brother was now sitting up, rubbing his bloody elbow and taking inventory of the damage to his knee. He looked around for his glasses that had been knocked off during his fall. I hurt all over, but I’d take a look at my injuries later. I helped my brother to his feet. People were now gathering around the accident scene on the hillside just above us, trying to help the trapped driver, and calling for EMS.

“Whoa… Momma’s gonna freak OUT, right?”

I paused, wondering if there was any way we could NOT tell her. Negative.

“You bet your ass she will. You have no idea.”

The players in this story will be given fictional names, as this is a true account of my twenties. I'm not protecting the innocent, because as you'll see, they didn't deserve it.

James was 10 years my senior and a man's man, because had he been a woman's man, he might have known better. Because how could a man so much older than I -make such a dangerous mistake, if he had an inkling of a woman's fears?

I still wonder at it.

We moved far up North. He was beckoned by a "head hunter" who I'll call Mark. Mark decided to befriend us. Being new to the area, he reasoned, he could show us around so that it would be more hospitable to us. He was a friendly guy.

It didn't strike me as strange that a recruiter would strike up a friendship beyond professionalism. I was young and inexperienced in the professional world though. In retrospect, it was pretty weird.

It seemed like James and Mark spent a lot of time together, drinking and hanging out. I was a homebody, always kind of had been.

It was with a lot of gusto that Mark would try his damnedest to get me to join their frat boy style frolics. I was uninterested.

It was with tremendous prodding one snowy, winter night that finally I agreed to go. They had already been drinking at Mark's - for a while- by the sounds of it.

I was placed on speaker phone.

"I don't have chains on my tires. I don't feel comfortable driving in this."

"Mark is sober, he'll pick you up."

I sighed, out of excuses and got dressed.

During the night, Mark told a story, intended to be humorous. I didn't laugh.

He shared he had been on a date with a girl who had passed out in the cab they shared. She wasn't able to consent.

This was meant to be seen as "cheeky", I guess.

I was quietly horrified.

The night progressed, at my annoyance and growing trepidation- with both men drinking and I, constantly declining. But it was only James who really seemed out of it after a while.

"Drink! Drink! Drink!" They pressured.

I watched Mark like a hawk as he poured my one, single shot of vodka. I coughed as I swallowed and declined more.

I conversed with Mark for a short time, trying to be normal until we could leave. It wasn't long before I noticed that James had left. I found him on the front porch. Head in hands.

"James? Are you okay?" My heart pounded with concern. He looked confused. Mark and I managed to, between us, pull his large frame to the couch to lie down comfortably. Mark assured me that James was just very, very drunk.

I can't remember what we talked about. I just remember requesting every 10 minutes that we be taken home. Mark declined. I was overreacting. James was fine. "We" were having fun.

Mark got up abruptly and came back with something in his palm.

"Oh hey! I want you to try this!"

"What is it?" My heart jumped -in a bad way.

"Trust me, it's good stuff. It'll be fun."

I saw it now, pressed between his thumb and forefinger. A little. Black. Pill. It looked dangerous and he wouldn't tell me what it was. I froze.

I remember the way his face changed from a smile, to intense frustration as he tried to shove the pill into my mouth. I clenched my teeth. He tried again and I doubled down and met his eyes with my own. He drew away. I'll never forget his face.

He didn't argue when I demanded he helped me get James to the car to take us home.

The next day, James admitted to taking one of those black pills. I shook my head.

I never spent time with Mark again, nor was I asked to. Had I been a little older, I would have demanded we report him to the police and would have stood my ground.

James remained friends with him a short time after and I'm certain he never confronted him. For such a big man, he was a coward. But this is one of only many reasons I lost feelings of affection for him.

I'm no longer bitter, because I kept myself safe that night, and that was what was most important. I don't remember Mark's last name. My only regret is not holding him accountable. I wonder how many young, sweet girls trusted this man? It hurts my heart to think about it.

I can't seem to escape these mistakes.

Like a man who fishes in empty lakes,

Every moment I'm haunted; morning, noon, and night.

My dreams bring with them no delight.

The darkness seeps in, like winter on roses,

And with every pondering, my open door closes.

I feel trapped in a box, with no hole to breathe.

Washing blood from my hands, but holding the sheath.

They creep in my mind, and tap on my skull.

They won't let me fall to a daydreamy lull.

I try to get out but they pull me back in.

They burst in my eyes all over again.

It seems I'll never escape these mistakes,

Like a man who fishes in empty lakes.

i fell restlessly in my abyss

the abyss grew long

escaping my cage, did not remincse

on the nights i spent home

grieving for the living

in a cluster of such calamity

my mouth spouted profanities

at the world burning of remorse

i felt ever so crippled

with ideas as vial as a villain’s

a narcissist i was

palms slashed up with scars

and the coal that surrounded my heart

fed up with my trying times

conned me to destroy the plot

my hands held a blue flame

unleashed against the so-called good, as they claim

with a devilish gleam in my eyes

i unknowingly fell in that void

the abyss that expanded without a shame

This moment of silence is just for me.

Cut out of a time when sleep's avoided,

I sit alone.

A bird chirps a song of morning dew,

and sometimes others join in—

A chorus ensues.

The sun has hours to arrive.

Once in a while, the hiss of a car zips through.

Moisture on tires ripping across asphalt

then back to silence.

There’s something in the silence that can’t be engineered.

Because it’s more a feeling than a sound.

There are always sounds, but not always peace.

and peace is everything in a world where there is none.

So, I sit alone and steal this moment for myself,

while you lay and dream of better years,

better days,

or better moments to come.

I wait patiently inviting the sun to peek its curious eyes over that mountain

so when you wake, I can greet you with a peaceful start to your day.

Your smile is worth the deprivation I endured.

Fading memories blow through my hollowed out soul,

wrapped in echoes of tormented silence and pain

riding hot desert winds, past the crumbling facade

of a dry empty ghost town where tumbleweeds reign.

Like emotional stretch marks carved into my heart,

inky shadows lie twisted, and deeply embossed

in striations and patterns that spell out your name,

filled with acid-rain tears, spilled for all that I’ve lost.

When I let myself ponder the cruelty of fate,

the unfairness twists inside my guts like a knife.

Since you left me behind without saying goodbye,

faded gray shades of loneliness color my life.

In my dreams you’re still here, warmly sharing my bed...

then I wake all alone, with your voice in my head.

--------------------------

©2018 - Dusty Grein

(Note: This entry won a weekly challenge back in 2018, so I am removing it from eligibility, regardless of # of likes... but a lot of folks loved this one, and I think it will resonate with some of my newer readers as well, who may not have scrolled through enough of my work to see it - DG)

The day after they moved in next door, I baked cookies, my husband picked a few heirloom tomatoes from our garden, and we went to welcome them to the neighborhood. We knocked and the door was opened only enough for the woman who answered to block the view inside with her body.

“Hi! We’re your neighbors,” I said pointing to our little red house. “I’m Darla, this is my husband, Jay. We just wanted to drop these off to say welcome.”

“Who is it?” a man said from in the house.

“Neighbors,” she yelled back.

Plastering a very fake smile on her face, she accepted the cookies and tomatoes, saying, “Thanks so much. That was very thoughtful of you. I’m Angel.” A man’s head appeared above her shoulder. “This is my husband, Garrett. We’re still getting settled so I can’t invite you in for a tour…” Is that a thing? A tour?

My husband and I glanced at each other and away. “We didn’t come to visit, just to say welcome.”

Her husband gave me what one might call an intimate smile and said, “Very neighborly of you.”

Wifey must have heard the look because the sickly smile added dagger eyes when she snapped,“You’re in great shape. Do you work out?”

“Um, yes?” Rather random, but whatever.

“Figures,” she mumbled then continued with the brilliant albeit fake smile, “Well, we have to get back to it. I’m sure we’ll be great neighbors. We’re very quiet.”

“We are as well. Except I do like to play music and sing. Hopefully, we’re far enough away. Lilly and Matt never said anything anyway.” Lilly and Matt were the previous owners.

“I love music. Don’t I love music, Garrett?” He looked as confused as Jay and I felt. “As soon as we are settled in, we’ll have you over for a tour.” Again with the tour.

“Good luck,” I said as they closed the door and we headed across the lawn to our own home.

“We’re not going over there again,” my husband said.

“A little weird,” I replied. “But not as weird as Jill’s new neighbors."

“Emma and Jake?”

“I swear, Jake never blinks when he talks to you. And his eyes are such an icy blue I get chills every time he talks to me.”

“They seem like a nice family.”

“Hmph. And where did they come from? I mean, there was never a for sale sign, an open house or moving vans. One day the Davidsons lived in the big yellow house and the next, Emma, Jake, Alec and Lily Jones did.”

“I think your imagination is itching to write a new story,” Jay said kissing my forehead before opening the door for me.

“Maybe,” I replied, not convinced.

A few months later, Christmastime, Angel knocked on our door while I was at work.

“Hi, Jay. I just wanted to drop these off,” she handed him a box of chocolates. “We love these. They’re very expensive. So good. They’re Garrett and my favorites. Really expensive.”

“Thanks, Angel.”

“Jay, do you think you could give me, Darla’s cell phone number? I’d like to ask her a question.”

“Sure.”

A few minutes after Jay called to warn me, she called.

“Darla? This is Angel. Your neighbor.”

“Hi, Darla.”

“Sorry to bother you at work, but Jay said it would be okay to call you.”

“No problem. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to ask, have there ever been any robberies on the block? I don’t really know anyone on the street yet besides you to ask, but we think someone has been trying to break into our home.”

“Really? That’s scary. But no, there has never been a problem. I mean, we do live behind the police station…I would imagine most criminals would look for easier pickings…Plus, it’s not exactly millionaire’s row.”

“Well, someone tried to come in the garage.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that. The block has been a wonderful community for the nearly 30 years we’ve lived here. Have you contacted the police?”

“We don’t need the police! We know people.”

“Okay…”

“I got cameras installed all over the property. We’re close to catching them. We have some suspects.”

“Okay…” Her voice sounded like we were suspects.

“Well, we don’t know anyone so maybe you could let people know something’s going on.”

“Will do. Good luck. Bye.”

That night when I got home, they had “No trespassing signs” around the house. And I guess hidden cameras. And spotlights.

“Don’t be too friendly, Darla,” my husband said when I told him her story. “I don’t trust those people. Something’s off.”

“Yeah, well, I hadn’t planned on any double dates, don’t worry.”

Things were quiet for a few weeks – as they often are in winter. Then over a period of days in March, alternately Angel or Garrett were screaming at people who parked in front of their house to get away from there – regardless of the hour. We have a neighbor who trains people in his garage starting at 6 am and his first client of the day was parked across the street from Angel’s house at 5:45. She went out in her nightgown and screamed at him, “Who are you? What are you doing here? Get away from here!”

Another day it was some members of a Christian woman’s group meeting at the home of a long-time resident, Martha. “You can’t park there! Get away from my house!”

Then it was men from the town doing work on my curb. “I’m going to call the police!”

“Lady, the police are right over there,” the man said pointing to the cop on duty. She huffed and went inside.

The strangest was when Garett went banging on the door of the elderly couple across the street: Martha, 82 and John 84. “Stop following my wife! She saw you following her car! You better cut it out!”

John was taken aback (you think?). “I’m 84 years old, I can barely drive to the supermarket.”

“Huh. Well, you just stay away from my wife.”

At this point, we all figured they were probably some kind of certifiable paranoid and we decided together and separately to keep our distance.

The last incident involved Emma. She said, “Hi, Angel,” one day while walking by with her dog and Angel started screaming, “Who are you? I don’t know you! Don’t talk to me.”

Emma tried to remind her that they were neighbors, they’d met when they first moved in. But Angel wouldn’t stop screaming and flailing her arms, so Emma kept walking.

Maybe two days later, I got home from work and the street was full of police cars and neighbors. I parked and walked down the street to the crowd and saw that the police were leading Jake Jones out of his house, in hand cuffs.

Feeling vindicated in my earlier wariness, I asked my neighbor Jill what happened.

“Apparently, he got angry that Angel screamed at Emma. Snuck in their house last night and stabbed both her and Garrett multiple times in their bed. He must have thought the signs about cameras were a lie. The alarm company has a patch into their camera system and caught him entering and leaving on tape.

“They put the photo on the neighborhood blog and statewide police wire, and someone recognized Jake. Not only from here in town, but also from several other towns.

“From what I hear, he is wanted all over the state. Maybe the country.”

“Oh my god!”

“There’s more. Look.”

“I turned as they carried out four body bags.”

“What -?”

“The Davidsons.”

“I knew it!”

He was a quiet man with a basset hound that would not shut up. Which was why I stood on his doorstep at two a.m. the night before he was arrested asking him once again to please bring the dog inside. Humphrey, the soft-spoken man, answered (like he always did), listened to my polite pleas, murmured something about bones and then gingerly closed his evergreen door like it was a friend of his. As many would, I deduced from the pleasant interaction that he would be tossing a bone to the basset hound to quiet it as soon as I walked away. However, in retrospect, it was naïve of me; out of the dozens of times I had dropped by since he moved in a year ago, that dog never stopped wailing because I asked nicely.

So, perhaps it was my own fault for expecting anything different. Fifteen minutes passed, and my Monday evening was still being invaded by the sound of deep howls like a mother weeping. Feeling duped, I tugged my slippers back onto my feet and stomped outside, decidedly weary from the recent nights I’d had no rest, but also fueled by three cups of black coffee. Humphrey was not going to do this to me again; I’d make sure of it.

His backyard was predominantly covered in the shadow of a large willow tree, despite the spotlights of neighboring houses tickling its edges. I crept up on the left side of the wooden fence and peeked over without pretense. Immediately below me, the hound was howling, a lost spirit in a storm at my fence. I wanted to squeeze his lungs through his nostrils.

But I didn’t. Instead, I brought out the turkey bone I had dug out of my garbage can and held it over the fence, a few feet above his reverberating skull. The cries continued underneath me, until I banged the bone against the cedar like a dinner bell. With this, he acknowledged me, snatching the bone from my grip and lying down where he was to chomp silently. I smiled, and dumped several more scraps from dinner beside him to keep him occupied long enough for me to fall asleep. I paused only to observe the dozens of bones that were left scattered and unchewed about Humphrey’s yard. I thought it was strange, but then again, Humphrey and his dog were not normal.

Returning to my home, I went right to bed. I thought no more of Humphrey, his hound, or the bone graveyard, falling asleep as soon as I lied down to rest. However, sometime an hour later, the dog must have finished his meal, because the wails began once again shriller and (if I was not mistaken) angrier than earlier. I screamed into my pillow like a lunatic and trekked back outside without shoes on my feet.

The hound was howling back at the bottom of my fence, the remnants of the leftovers I gave him strewn on the moist grass. I couldn’t tell for sure, but they seemed unfinished. Empty-handed and desperate for a conclusion, I rapped on the inside of the fence again, hoping to draw his attention. He turned to look up at me, his mouth closed and quiet.

And the howls continued. From under where I was standing.

I ran then. Not because I was a coward, but because, to put it plainly, I thought I might be hallucinating. It was easier to blame the nights of sleeplessness than to believe a person was truly imprisoned underneath my feet. Nonetheless, I had every intention of returning and getting the police examine the spot in the ground eventually. First, however, I just needed to get away from there.

I sprinted and then walked for several miles, until halting at a twenty-four hour diner where I ordered more coffee and a plate of banana chocolate chip pancakes. By the time I finished, the sun had risen, and the morning rush was arriving. With a belly full of nerve, I decided to trudge back to my house and reexamine the patch of dirt by my fence, possibly to alert the authorities if needed. Yet, the earth was silent, so I decided I must have been delirious, and walked into my home to prepare for another workday.

Twelve minutes after five p.m. I pulled back into my driveway, the memory of the night before truly feeling like a dream. However, as soon as I saw the police outside Humphrey’s house, dragging him out in handcuffs, I remembered. A team of white jumpsuits scurried through his backyard, clustered near the back right of the dirt-covered yard around a dilapidated shed I barely noticed. I rubbed my eyes as they appeared to disappear into a doorway in the soil underneath it.

I ambled past the neighbors gathered around on the sidewalk and parts of my front lawn like flies, whispering their speculations and a few buzzing in my ear. I shooed them away, leaving them to their shock and confusion, and for the rest of the evening I sat on my side stoop watching the investigation. A few of the white spacemen put some of the hound’s bones in evidence bags, chatting (rather loudly) about how the man’s shallow basement made it so the bones could not be buried. Eventually, I also started hearing thumping from under my fence, presumably when the spacemen walked far enough into Humphrey’s hidden basement.

The thumps continued further than I expected, however, leading right beside me beneath my humble garden of zucchinis and sunflowers. I shivered, realizing in that moment why the howls of Humphrey’s ‘dog’ always seemed so deafening to me.

As the dusk embraced the sky above the neighborhood, Humphrey’s yard was lit for the first time in the darkness by portable lamps the police had arranged around the perimeter. A detective came to visit me around then and asked me a handful of generic questions. I told him who I was, and I told him it was all quite surprising. And when asked if I knew anything about the woman, the one Humphrey had been holding for weeks underneath my fence, I shook my head grimly and solemnly.

The following morning, instead of rushing out the door to my job, I lingered in my kitchen scanning the news on my cellphone. It didn’t take long to find the headline about the quiet man and the six women he had taken since his wife died last winter, yet there was only one woman I cared about: Lina Tafani. She was his final victim, dying just a few hours before the police raided his home. No family was left behind, but a photo has been used of her smiling with a young man looking happy. The police say she likely fought Humphrey and almost escaped, judging by the fresh scratches on Humphrey’s skin and the lump on his forehead.

However, they are not certain, because the struggle probably would have made quite a racket, and apparently, no one heard a thing that evening.

With the bronze illumination of the setting sun flowing in through the rear window, I turned slowly onto Clark Street. The wheels of my car had traversed this same turn thousands of times, with little to no variation. Creeping along past the rows of cute, Virginian homes, I noticed a few familiar figures. There solemnly stood Mr. and Mrs. Maddox, Mr. Franklin, and Ms. Harriet, all conversing quietly in front of my quaint abode. Mr. Maddox, known to neighbors as Pete, noticed me soon after. Motioning to the others, he scuttled out of the drive and into the street. The rest followed. The sound of the squeaky brakes rose, and so did my curiosity. I was half surprised to see Pete walk up the open door of my car with a soft look on his face, for once.

"Evenin' Sean. Did'ya hear 'bout that odd fellow Darren down the street?" There was a slight chuckle before he continued in a more serious tone. "They say he's been charged with a double-homicide of some girls from Culpeper. Poor thangs." He gestured towards the undercover police vehicles parked a few houses down.

It was clear that the scruffy man had expected more of a reaction out of me, or some sort of surprised gasp. The truth was, I wasn't the least surprised.

"Awe, well, I's sure you has. It's spread all over the damn town in 'bout an hour" he said in a matter-of-fact voice. It was then that petite Ms. Harriet noticed Pete and I, and made her way over in a nervous waddle.

"He was such a quiet man." she said upon arriving, "Didn't expect nothing like this at all! He only seemed a little different, don't you think, Sean?" There was a touch of pity in her words, which was clearly to Pete's chagrin. He rolled his eyes.

It was only now that I realized I hadn't said a word since arriving on this worried scene. I was deep in thought, juggling ideas and memories inside my head. So deep was my thinking, in fact, that I ignored the commotion which ensued at the sight of the convicted neighbor Darren being dragged out in handcuffs. I only looked up in time to see the crazed face of that stranger-turned-murderer, and the uninterested look painted on it. I shuddered.

I knew from the day he moved in that something was different about this character. He had ignored my knocking on his door, when I planned to give him a warm welcome to Clark Street. From that moment on, I kept a particularly keen eye on him. That was when things got weird. When I finally heard his voice for the first time, I wished immediately I had never. The slight stutter, the strangely-placed emphasis, and the uncanny charisma which inevitably drew you in. Everything he said was in a slow, smooth, and deliberate fashion, always with some hidden purpose or agenda. Every word twisted, molded into some creation of evil intent. It was clear to me how some clueless girls could fall into the traps of his dialect.

His slicked-back hair, with long, greasy locks, made him appear neat, yet maniacal. There was some eerie aura around his dark, beady eyes and cleanly shaven face. The way he conversed with the unsuspecting mail-lady gave me uncomfortable feelings and judgement for him rose up within me. I suspected some villain-like intention behind everything he did, yet my good-nature did not let the words of allegation ever leave my mouth. I accused him secretly, reported him silently, but never had the guts to publicly raise a red flag.

So, as my eyes followed the police vehicles containing that murderous lunatic, rolling down the avenue, I felt some semblance of guilt. My brain made me believe there was some way to blame myself for the death of two innocent girls. Yet I knew there wasn't.

As the last sliver of the golden star slipped behind the horizon, I drew in a deep breath. Along with the rest of Clark Street, I would eventually forget the murder, and the story of the two victims would be lost to time. But I wasn't convinced that the memory of such a deranged, demented human could ever leave my mind.

Now from this cold cell I write.

I write so that I do not forget my dearest neighbor, Sean. The only one who knew, the only one who could have made a difference. Of all the stupid people I found on that doleful street, he was the least stupid.

But alas, he was just not brave enough. I imagine he is sitting now, feeling that beautiful mountain of guilt. If only he would have told someone, and warned them about me. Rising suspicion would have brought about caution. Maybe, just maybe, the lives of those two lovely ladies would have been saved.

But probably not...

Darren S. Leonard, #2334.

Central Virginia Correctional Unit, Cell 38B, 2/23/21.

“Do you still want to rent that back bedroom?” Dale asked.

“Huh?” I was hungover. Dale continued, “Used car salesman Jim is moving out next week.”

“Five hundred a month?” I asked.

Dale farted then answered in the affirmative.

It felt good to have my own space again. Aside from Dale, my only other roommate was an aged pill head named Dennis. Dennis was a card-carrying asshole, but he usually was good for a few Vicodin so that made him tolerable. “Oh yeah” I told myself. It was time to be positive. It was time to enjoy the simpler things, like being able to lock my door, masturbate in peace and run the air conditioner 24/7.

I was awakened the next morning to the sound of mariachi music and Dennis screaming that he could, “Fix his fucking leg wherever he felt like it!” As Dale’s muffled voice backfired down the hallway.

“These motherfuckers," I thought as I peeled myself from the floor and headed down the hallway to witness Dennis waving a pistol and losing his shit.

“Fuck you Dale! You fat fuckin’ baby! I pay my rent so you can kiss my ass!”

I looked to the head of the blood drenched table to see Dale purple and fat; his exposed hernia pulsated to the pounding in my head. I sidestepped Dennis, put my coffee in the microwave and stood ready. Ready to what, I couldn’t tell you.

“What’s all this blood and shit all over the table?” It was my attempt to inject some levity into the situation and find out why our mutual dining table looked like somebody had thrown a tray of lasagna at the ceiling fan and let it rain.

Dennis wheeled around and shouted, “It’s for my fucking leg!”

“Be nice to him” I told myself. He might have some Vicodin. Offer him a cup of coffee, grab the gun, kill him and empty the lockbox he keeps his pills in.

Sitting back down in front of his tampons and syringes, Dennis took one final run at injecting lidocaine into the bloody ham steak that lay weeping down the length of his shin. But faster than you could say, “You got any Percocet you wanna sell?” Dennis retreated to his bedroom leaving behind a trail of blood and an emerging pattern of being batshit crazy, crippled with anger and unable to understand why Dale and I came to believe him to be, an irredeemable piece of shit.

David Burdett

5/31/2023