fast to the truth. Their influence always sends a ripple farther than you or I might have expected.”
I’m more inclined to think we as people should take action and not just sit by and watch each other unravel, tear ourselves apart, or fold under the latest fear. Still, the weight of Melissa’s question isn’t lost on me. The familiar stranger and broken down preacher sitting in my kitchen hammer the load down with equal force.
I fade into the background again while Mordecai prattles on about faith. He does his best to bolster Melissa’s confidence and invites her to Sunday services.
The phone rings before she can answer.
Give ’Em What They Deserve, Johnny
February 27 th , 2002 4:46 AM
Johnny Rollins’ bedroom
I slept for a few hours. Bruises wouldn’t let me sleep forever, though. Each time I rolled over, there was another howling pain in my stomach or side. Now awake, my head throbs a bit, kind of like the time I drank a bottle of Mad Dog on New Year’s. It’s all I could get my hands on.
My bedroom isn’t much of a room. It’s more like half a room. Between the piles of clothes and the particle board dresser I’ve had since two, there’s hardly space to stand. Made use of every inch of the walls, though. My favorite bands are plastered on each side.
Usually I’d be getting up for school in a few hours, but not today. It doesn’t matter to me, the detentions and stuff like that. I’m going to give Buck Armstrong what he has coming to him.
That fat bastard asked for it. He wants to push me around like some snot-nosed kid? I’m not the little shit he thinks I am. He can’t work me over and expect I’ll just take it. I’m not one of his barstool buddies.
When I picture Buck’s puffy face, breathing heavy and slick with sweat, I want to bring him down a notch. He’s a nobody—a nothing—and I’m going to take away what means most to him.
The sun hasn’t crept up yet. I swear it’s all the colder for it. I sit up, toss off the thin quilted blanket, and swing stiff legs over the side of the bed. Mom doesn’t work today, so she won’t need the car.
I slip into my jeans from yesterday and pull on a faded black hoodie from the clean pile. Mom’s probably hammered, but I creep into the hallway anyway, laces tucked in to my boots.
In the kitchen, I snatch a Pop-Tart from the cupboard and the car keys from the table. My brown work jacket hangs on the chair where I left it. A black stocking cap droops out of the left pocket.
With one arm in a sleeve and keys in the other hand, I ease the door open and shut as quiet as I can. Mom forgot to lock it, so it’s not too noisy.
I wiggle my other arm into the dangling sleeve and step soft along the hall, down two flights of stairs, and out into the cold. Fresh snow crinkles underfoot. There’s a few inches.
Our old Pontiac Grand Prix sits half-buried in a drift. I wipe snow off the windows the best I can with the sleeves of my coat. Inside, cigarette ash litters the faded seat covers torn and worn thin. The motor hacks like it’s got its own smoker’s cough.
The snow makes for slow going because nothing’s been plowed yet. Dragging and sloshing through the thick white muck, the balding tires do their best to keep up with my steering. I don’t waste time thinking about crashing because there’s nothing that can stop me now. I made up my mind about what’s got to be done.
This worthless town sleeps, dumb and unaware. Unlit homes line the road, framed in my frosty windows like some reject winter scene. The endless white stretches out with no one but me to take it in, like it’s there for me to make sense of it.
Halgraeve makes me want to puke. It’s a bunch of dead-ends, one wrong turn after another. People are born here and then they rot, but not before making each other miserable. I’m not sorry for burning any of it. Never have been.
I’ll burn this whole town if I have to. I was content for a while to mind my own business, to
I’m more inclined to think we as people should take action and not just sit by and watch each other unravel, tear ourselves apart, or fold under the latest fear. Still, the weight of Melissa’s question isn’t lost on me. The familiar stranger and broken down preacher sitting in my kitchen hammer the load down with equal force.
I fade into the background again while Mordecai prattles on about faith. He does his best to bolster Melissa’s confidence and invites her to Sunday services.
The phone rings before she can answer.
Give ’Em What They Deserve, Johnny
February 27 th , 2002 4:46 AM
Johnny Rollins’ bedroom
I slept for a few hours. Bruises wouldn’t let me sleep forever, though. Each time I rolled over, there was another howling pain in my stomach or side. Now awake, my head throbs a bit, kind of like the time I drank a bottle of Mad Dog on New Year’s. It’s all I could get my hands on.
My bedroom isn’t much of a room. It’s more like half a room. Between the piles of clothes and the particle board dresser I’ve had since two, there’s hardly space to stand. Made use of every inch of the walls, though. My favorite bands are plastered on each side.
Usually I’d be getting up for school in a few hours, but not today. It doesn’t matter to me, the detentions and stuff like that. I’m going to give Buck Armstrong what he has coming to him.
That fat bastard asked for it. He wants to push me around like some snot-nosed kid? I’m not the little shit he thinks I am. He can’t work me over and expect I’ll just take it. I’m not one of his barstool buddies.
When I picture Buck’s puffy face, breathing heavy and slick with sweat, I want to bring him down a notch. He’s a nobody—a nothing—and I’m going to take away what means most to him.
The sun hasn’t crept up yet. I swear it’s all the colder for it. I sit up, toss off the thin quilted blanket, and swing stiff legs over the side of the bed. Mom doesn’t work today, so she won’t need the car.
I slip into my jeans from yesterday and pull on a faded black hoodie from the clean pile. Mom’s probably hammered, but I creep into the hallway anyway, laces tucked in to my boots.
In the kitchen, I snatch a Pop-Tart from the cupboard and the car keys from the table. My brown work jacket hangs on the chair where I left it. A black stocking cap droops out of the left pocket.
With one arm in a sleeve and keys in the other hand, I ease the door open and shut as quiet as I can. Mom forgot to lock it, so it’s not too noisy.
I wiggle my other arm into the dangling sleeve and step soft along the hall, down two flights of stairs, and out into the cold. Fresh snow crinkles underfoot. There’s a few inches.
Our old Pontiac Grand Prix sits half-buried in a drift. I wipe snow off the windows the best I can with the sleeves of my coat. Inside, cigarette ash litters the faded seat covers torn and worn thin. The motor hacks like it’s got its own smoker’s cough.
The snow makes for slow going because nothing’s been plowed yet. Dragging and sloshing through the thick white muck, the balding tires do their best to keep up with my steering. I don’t waste time thinking about crashing because there’s nothing that can stop me now. I made up my mind about what’s got to be done.
This worthless town sleeps, dumb and unaware. Unlit homes line the road, framed in my frosty windows like some reject winter scene. The endless white stretches out with no one but me to take it in, like it’s there for me to make sense of it.
Halgraeve makes me want to puke. It’s a bunch of dead-ends, one wrong turn after another. People are born here and then they rot, but not before making each other miserable. I’m not sorry for burning any of it. Never have been.
I’ll burn this whole town if I have to. I was content for a while to mind my own business, to
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