Day Six.1

 

The truck roars past the vacant houses as the front of each building stares at me with blank disdain.  For the millionth time I think of my mother, neurotic and compulsive, far away in Springfield.  If she’s even on this Earth at all.  Or whatever I should call this place.  My heart wrenches when I think of how scared she must be, how I know she is worrying about me no matter where she is. 

Stupid…” I mutter yet again.

How foolish I was to enter the store like that.  I was assuming I would be alone, that I am alone, instead of wishing that I would find others.  Why?

Next to me Cleaver leans his head out the window until his ears catch the wind and bounce up like sails.  He barks casually.

Perhaps I want to be alone, I think as I pull up to the most magnificent mansion in town.  I’d always speculated about who’d lived here.  But it didn’t matter now.  I rammed through the ornate, tangled iron gates in the front and pull around a decorated driveway to the front door which is partially framed by overgrown ivy.  I slide out the driver’s seat taking special care with my leg, and Cleaver follows behind me. 

From the front we can see a teal pool peaking from the backyard, a covered gazebo with a built in bar and flat screen television behind that.  Bay windows grace every room in the front of the house, and a cobblestone walkway connects the back to the front on either side.  The front step was designed as a small patio and a cup of moldy coffee and a weathered newspaper still sit on the little slate table.

As I walk to the front door, which of course lies wide open, I think about calling for anyone.  But I know there is no one.

Cleaver and I walk through the front door, I with more difficulty than he, and we are welcomed into a hardwood foyer with candles at every corner that have never been lit. 

Through the first doorway I can see a kitchen with a sleek black counter and white cabinetry.  To my left an entertaining area with yet another bar set up in the corner consisting of a decorative collection of olives and expensive liquors of different varieties.  The martini glasses might as well have been whipped from diamonds.

With the Glock tucked into my –now shredded- denim, baseball bat still in hand, I lock the door behind us.  Deadbolt and doorknob.

The End

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