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1 - Manson
High School — Senior Year
Silence had fallen. The quiet was eerie; I wasn’t used to it. The house was always creaking, groaning, breathing. Like something lived in the walls, dragging its nails down the old boards, pressing its shoulders against the underside of the floor.
As a child, I believed this house was haunted. Now I knew better, but I still heard things that weren’t there — phantom noises in the silence. Was I losing my mind? Had something in me finally cracked?
Considering I was seated on the floor with my back beneath my window, facing my door as I flipped my butterfly knife between my fingers, maybe I was right. Maybe my brain had broken.
It was scary how calm I felt.
The stairs creaked with footsteps, and I stiffened. Boots pounded down. There was the sound of a belch, and the refrigerator door squeaked as it opened. Glass clinked; there was a hiss and thetap-tip-tapof a bottle cap hitting the floor.
It was seven in the fucking morning. There was no food in the fridge, but there was a 24-pack of beer and a handle of whiskey. Dad had been gone for nearly six months and I’d been foolish enough to think he would actually stay away this time.
There was no getting rid of him unless he was dead.
The footsteps moved back toward the stairs, but then they passed them. They came down the hall, and a shadow moved under my door. His breathing was heavy, grunting and huffing with drunkenness.
Come on, motherfucker. Try me. I fucking dare you.
There were scratches on the floor from where I used to shove my dresser in front of the door to barricade it. But it wasn’t even locked now. I should have left it wide open to make my invitation a little clearer.
I dare you to try it. Try to hurt me. See what happens.
The heavy boots shuffled and stomped away, and I exhaled slowly. The knife’s handle dug into my palm as I gripped it tightly. I’d been ready. I would have done it. I would have killed my father...sliced open his throat and severed his jugular...stabbed him until his chest caved in...strewn his guts around the house like a goddamn work of art.
Dropping my head into my hands, I gripped my hair until it hurt. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I didn’t...
Fucking hell, but Idid. After so many years of being afraid, cringing every time I heard him speak, ducking my head around him, keeping my voice down — it had been a long time coming.
But why bother now? I was a snake with its head cut off, twisting and writhing in the dirt, dead jaws still snapping. Why keep fighting? Was it instinct, primality demanding I survive? The easiest solution would have been to let myself die years ago,but I was still here.
That social worker, Kathryn Peters, said I just needed to hold on a little longer. Part of me didn’t believe she’d do a goddamn thing. No one in my life had ever bothered to help me, so why should she? She claimed she would find me housing, a job. She said she would find someplace safe. I was too old for the foster system; I didn’t qualify for youth shelters. She said she might be able to find a room for me in Memphis; but if that fell through, she’d have to look even further away.
I’d told her I wouldn’t go if it meant leaving them.
Lucas, Jason, Vincent...I couldn’t leave them. We stuck together, always. I could give up everything else but not them. And not...
Her.
Why the hell did I think of her?
I meant nothing to her. Less thannothing. She should have been the last thing on my mind.
The thought of getting up and going to school, when seconds ago, I’d been ready to murder my dad, seemed ludicrous. But I got up, grabbed my backpack from the corner, and hauled it over my shoulder. Mrs. Peters — she insisted I call her Kathy, like she was trying to be relatable — said I needed to stay out of trouble, and that meant continuing to attend high school despite it being a complete shitshow.
Dad may have gone back upstairs, but I still wasn’t going to walk out the front door. I shoved open my window and dropped my bag out, then swung my legs out after it. My boots crunched in the dry weeds as I trudged across the yard toward my SUV. Discarded beer cans, cigarette butts, and piles of junk were strewn everywhere, and the entire place smelled faintly of rotten food. It was probably the overflowing garbage piled next to the garage, which was similarly filled with junk.
Luckily, my Bronco started on the first try. It was having issues again, and Lucas and I intended to look under the hood that weekend to figure out what was up. Hopefully, whatever part needed to be replaced wasn’t too expensive, or we could try rummaging around for whatever we needed at the junkyard again.
The parking lot at Wickeston High was nearly full when I pulled in. The bell hadn’t rung yet and many seniors were hanging around their cars, shouting to each other over the loud music playing from multiple vehicles. My tires screeched as I whipped the wheel around, pulling into an empty spot near the back corner of the lot next to a black El Camino.
Lucas loved that car, rusted out and thrashed as it was. He claimed he’d make it into a beast one day, a drag racer that couldn’t be beat. I was just glad to hear him talking about the future.
Lucas, Vincent, and Jason were seated in the El Camino’s bed, and Lucas raised his arm in greeting as I got out of the Bronco and climbed in with them.
“Thought you would be late again, fucker,” he said, taking a long drag on his cigarette. He wasn’t supposed to be here on campus, but being told not to do something had never stopped him before. He took a pack of American Spirits out of his jeans and offered me one, and I lit up gratefully. The burn of tobacco hitting my throat and a quick hit of nicotine soon made me feel a little more human.
