Chapter III

I think he was confused in that house...

   III
      
       It had been a long time since I last roamed New York, but without even thinking about it I managed to navigate my way through the city streets by heart. I was never a good swimmer, and I found myself having a difficult time treading over these rowdy waves of people that flooded the streets of New York. I was tripped twice and some fat loon decided to tap dance on my hand. I was in a lot of pain; however, in a few hours, it wouldn't matter. I tried not to think about it. It was too depressing.
       The skies, ironically enough, were totally clear. I always pictured the end of the world being stormy and dark, but it's nice enough to go swimming right now. I could see the weather forecast now-- mostly clear with a 100% chance of scattered missile showers. "The calm before the storm," I whisper.
       When I was little, I used to be afraid of storms. Everything about them seemed frightening. The darkness was like a black shroud that hid evil things from my sight. They would prowl, unseen by my eye. The rain was their footsteps, quick and fast, closing in every second. In my room I'd feel trapped, suffocated, like an animal at bay. The walls would close in, threatening to smother me. The lightning was their eyes, shining in malevolence. Their eyes would light up in anticipation for the hunt as they closed in. The thunder was their mighty growl, shaking the earth, making the air vibrate with their seething hate. The wind was their breath, violent and hateful. Whenever there was a bad storm, I would curl up into a blanket and close my eyes until it ended. I could always tell when there was going to be a bad storm. Something in the air would tell me, as if speaking to my heart. I get that same feeling here and now, only this time I had nowhere to hide. The monsters this time would send the world into oblivion.
       I turn one final street and suddenly find myself standing in front of the place I used to call home. It was exactly the way it was when I left it about six months ago. The memories it brings back are bittersweet. This house holds a lot of great memories, but a lot of bad ones, too. We actually used to call it, "The More House."
       I'd lived in this house since I was four. I remember the first time I had ever seen it. Before, my parents had lived in a shabby little apartment that constantly smelled of piss and was slowly falling apart. Sometimes the shower water came out brown, the sink pipes were always busting a leak, and the toilet was constantly backing up. When my mother became pregnant with Jack, they decided it was time they found a real home. They looked everywhere, and saw some really nice houses, but none of them compared to the one they agreed on. They fell in love when they saw it. It was a nice little white house, big enough for comfort and not too small. The first time they brought me to see it, I kept spinning around and shouting, "Look mommy, it's so bootyful! It's so bootyful!" I couldn't pronounce beautiful right, so I kept shouting "Bootyful!" I remember my father shaking his head, giggling lightly, saying to my mother, "If he keeps shouting that, people are going to think this is a w***e-house."
       I had stopped spinning. "Daddy?" I asked. "What's a w***e-house?"
       "Gerald!" my mother scolded, whacking him behind the head.
       "N-no," my father said, trying to think of something to say. "I said... the more house!"
       "The more house?"
       "Yes! I mean, just look at how much more house there is! We can fit more furniture, more stuff, more toys, all sorts of stuff!"
       "Can we fit more w****s in here, too?"
       At that point my father lost it and busted out laughing. My mother even giggled and joined in. I didn't get it, but I laughed too. My parents loved that memory so much that they just had to buy the house, and from that point on, we all called it The More House.
       "I'm home," I whisper, and step onto the porch. It definitely had a nostalgic effect on me, standing on the porch I grew up on. "It really is a fitting place to die," I sigh and push through the door.
       Although nothing had changed on the outside of the house, its interior had very much altered since I last roamed its halls. Gone was the brand name Lazy Boy furniture that once sat in front of the 52 inch HDTV. Gone were the pictures and portraits that once lined the walls of the More House. Of course, that was expected; after my mother died, all of her belongings were sold to auction while my brother and I were placed in foster care. I was quite expecting to walk into an empty, bare house; however, what I walked into was a dirty-smelling place filled with tons of s**t I had never even seen in my life, and most of it looked older than my dead grandmother. The Lazy Boy had been replaced with some ancient-looking rocking chairs and a very weathered love seat. Crude, wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with an odd assortment of knickknacks and strange little dolls with evil eyes. The place smelled very musty, with the faint aroma of incense trying to cover it up. There were portraits of what looked like Vietnam, some cases showing war medals, and a few antique guns that I didn't know the name of.
       After a moment, I put it together. During my absence, some old geezer must have moved in. It was no longer my house. "Great," I mutter. "What do I do now?"
       I walk further into the house to see if anybody is home. Suddenly I hear the heart-stopping sound of a shotgun being cocked. 
       "Turn around. Now."
       Breathing heavily, I turn to see an elderly man standing a few feet away from me, holding a shotgun in my direction. My eyes widened in fear. S**t, I thought. I really am going to die in this house!
       "Who are you?" the man growls.
       "M-my name is Allen," I stammer.
       "What are you doing here, eh? Thought you would loot an old man's house did you? Thought it would be easy to steal from a poor, defenseless old man, you stupid little lout?!"
       Lout? Did that man just call me a lout? What in the hell is a lout? "No sir," I reply. "I am not a thief, I just--"
       "Lies! I know your kind, you're all scum!" he spat at my feet. "You really are a stupid lout. I'm not naive! I fought back in 'Nam!"
       "Sir, your experience in the Vietnamese war has no regard to our generation--"
       "Quiet, fool! I was fighting them communist b******s before you were in diapers! I remember back in 1965, crawlin' through the rice patties while my brethren and me were under fire, the sound of the mortars drowning out all sound--"
       The man continues to babble on about the war, almost seeming to forget I was there. "Um, sir?"
       "Quiet, Billy!" he barks. "Your grandfather ain't got a whole lot of life left in these bones, so let his story be told!" he put the gun down and sits down in a chair. "Sit!"
       Billy? Who's Billy? Don't tell me this senile old fool thinks I'm his grandson! "Sir, I'm not--"
       "That's Mr. Sir to you, Billy! Now I remember one time back in 'Nam, I was--"
       Oh hell no sir, just shoot me now! Don't make me sit through this entire story, please...
       Suddenly he stops talking. His head droops and his eyelids shut. I stand there for a moment. "Sir? Hey, sir?" Oh God, don't tell me he just died on me! "Sir? Sir?!"
       Suddenly he snorts and jolts back awake. He sees me and gasps. "Thief! Thought you would steal from an old man while he slept, eh? Well I got a shotgun, you stupid lout! I know your kind, I fought back in 'Nam!" 
       Great, not this again...
       Suddenly there is a very audible gunshot from outside. The old man jumps, startled. "It's them!" he cries, going red in the face. "They think they can just waltz into my homeland?!" He pushes me aside and runs to the porch. "Come get some, you bunch of stupid communist b******s!" He fires his shotgun into the air. "Come get what's coming to ya!" He runs off, rambling about his experiences in Vietnam.
       "Well," I mutter to myself. "That was just weird."
       I shake my head. The house was no longer mine, and I don't want to take the chance of being shot by some senile old man so I decide the best thing to do is to just find a nice wuiet place to die in and wait for the end.
       I wasn't even going to get that chance.
       "Hey kid! Give me your money!"
       I feel a hand grip my wrist painfully. I am spun around and faced with some Nazi-skinhead-freak. "What?" I stammer.
       "Give me your money! Now!"
       "I-I don't have any money," I blubber.
       He pulls out a knife and presses it to my neck. "Well we have a problem then, don't we?" 
       He presses it harder, hard enough to draw blood. I wince in pain and struggle against his grasp. "What do you want from me?" I cry. "You don't need any money! You can take whatever you want, nobody will stop you!" 
       "No one will stop me, eh? Well I want your life, and I will take it from you with this knife and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it." He flashes a sick grin.
       "I've never done anything to you! Let me go!"
       "Make me, s**t-head!"
       Oh God, I'm really going to die... I thought to myself as the fear in my heart grows. No! You won't go down that easy! Just stay calm and keep fighting... Now! I manage to pull a hand free from his grasp, and using that golden moment, I c**k it back and ream it into his groin with all my force. He cries out in pain, bending over to carress his genitals while I pull free.
       "You'll pay for that!" he roars. "Get back here!"
       At that moment I do the thing that I was born to do-- run. I run as fast as I have ever run, despite my injuries. I was free again, fee like the wind. He couldn't keep with me. Feeling triumphant, I don't pay attention to where I am going, and smack! I meet the headlights of a car. I roll off of the windshield and onto the ground. 
       "Goddamn!" I cry out. The car hit me in the side-- it wasn't a hard hit, but it still hurt like hell. 
       "Oh my God, are you okay?" the driver asks, exiting his car. "How do you feel?"
       "Like I've been hit by a car," I reply, gritting my teeth. "How do you think I feel?"
       "I am so terribly sorry! I didn't see you, you just darted out in the middle of the road! Are you okay?"
       "Yeah," I answer. "By the way, your car is being stolen."
       "What?" The man turns around to see that a bunch of teenagers had entered his car and were driving away. "Hey!" he shouts. "HEY! GET BACK HERE! THAT'S MY CAR"
       The man takes off as if he thought he could catch up to a full-speed car on foot. "Get back here!" he shouts again.
         My side hurts where the car said hello to my body, but as far as I can tell, nothing is broken. Yet. I manage to stagger off to the sidewalk and stumble into an alley that nobody seems to be occupying. I press my back to the side of a building and collapse to the ground. Oh my aching body… today has been such a blur. A coup de etat? I still couldn't get that through my mind. Where the hell did that come from? 
       Jack. My only brother. Kidnapped. It's my fault, I should have been behind him on the fire escape to prevent him from going back up. How could he be so foolish? I thought he was smart! He always weighed his options before he made a decision! What did he even go back for, anyways?
       Oh yeah. That picture. And I lost it. All of that for nothing. All of that so I could be tazed and fall out of a two-story window. Why? Why did everything bad always have to happen to me?!
       I rest my head on my lap as bitter tears come to my eyes. It dawned on me that I was going to die all alone. All alone in this dark, cruel world, so far away from the place I used to call home, and the life I used to know nothing more than a faded picture.
       I remember the last time I saw my mother alive. I had called her a drunken w***e, and then she proceeded to drive her car off of a quarry. This is one of my biggest regrets, and I find myself wishing I could take it back again.
       There are so many things I wish I could take back. It's pointless to dwell on the things of the past, but… it's all I've got left. And when I die, all of my regrets will probably drag me to hell.
       I doze off.