To scorch, or to be scorched
This Guy is on Fire
Heat games
It’s a fall day in the late 90s. My momma is making something affordable for dinner, and I’m on the couch. My chosen seat is twenty-years-old, brown, floral, sticky from years of smoke, but still more comfortable than any of the stiff couches at my friend’s homes.
I read Flowers in the Attic, and the cool breeze floats calmly through the screen door. Leaves are rustling, and the sky is gray and cloudy. These are my favorite days.
But that’s the thing about peace. It never lasts long.
The back door is in the small kitchen, a few feet from where I am in the living room. It opens with a bang and a howl.
“MOTHER FUCK!!”
It’s my dad. I hear a commotion and see my brother walk through the door with his football practice gear, laughing.
My mom speaks. “Roger, what’s wrong?”
“Ask your GOD damned son.”
This is typical. Their goddamned son is always doing some ridiculous shit, and I’m getting to the age where it’s honestly not that funny anymore.
I tune them out and go back to my book because I’m at a great fuckin part. Let them have their drama, I’m trying to live in my fucked up fictional world.
