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This topic has moved here: Subject: Struggle. (short story)
  • Subject: Struggle. (short story)
Subject: Struggle. (short story)

RIP - The Rev: February 9, 1981 – December 28, 2009
RIP - Mitch Lucker: October 20, 1984 - November 1, 2012
RIP - Dimebag Darrell: August 20, 1966 – December 8, 2004
RIP - Ronny James Dio: July 10, 1942 - May 16, 2010

The Marine arrived at his home, the green of the lawn holding the nurture it always had. He stepped out of the scarred and dented Humvee, the engine roaring and grunting uncontrollably. He turned around, thanked his commanding officer, walked to the back door which was missing the window and had numerous bullet-holes in it, reached behind and in the Humvee and pulled the handle and pushed.The door creaked open and he grabbed his dirty MARPAT bag and slammed the door.

"Thank-you, sir," he said to the captain still in the drivers seat. He nodded, his grey eyes exhausted from their five tours. "Your EOD armor's still in the trunk, sir, you want it up here?" The captain looked down to the tattered and bloody passenger seat, contemplating. "Nah, keep t back there." is all he said. The Humvee sped away, the six foot antenna whipping in the brisk morning air. The thick brown oak door was locked when he went to twist the handle. He searched his pockets, fumbled with them and snatched them up out of his pocket. The door opened with ease, sliding back.

He stepped in, his tan and scarred boots echoing in the vast entry. The wooden floor gleamed and the soft yellow walls held the family line clean and without dust. He set his bag down on the floor-mat, closed the door with a quiet and known ease and hear something coming from upstairs. At seven thirty in the morning? Who wold be up now? He walked up the stairs to his left, the pictures of long old and dead family members staring with their honest love and compassion at him. He heard the song Scream playing lightly but not loud enough to cover up the grunt and thud.

He walked past a bedroom where his 12 year old daughter slept, past his old spare room where he slept when he couldn't catch any, and walked up to the white door that had a giant sign of KEEP OUT! clearly printed on it, and opened it up. There was a guy over his son, knife in hand, fixing to stab him without a heart, when the father pulled out his pistol from it's hip holster and told the man to drop the knife, get and and walk away from his son. The knife lunged down at his son's throat a moment too late: the gun fired, the hand on the man blew back and at an awkward angle, and the knife went tumbling under the bed.

"Boy, what hell do you want with my family!" He barked and the guy jumped up, holding the son hostage by his throat. "Your son," is all he said seconds before he tried to kill him. The Marine fired in to the man's leg and dropped him. "I could've done much worse to pig like you." The guy looked up to the Marine who had the gun at his head and fear took place of the grizzled determination. The Marine then pistol-whipped the guy on the neck, knocking him cold.

"Son, who was that?" he asked, still above the guy, examining his attire, his blackened face and his large and tough hands. "Dad," the son went on to say and his voice cracked. "I don't know but he's been coming here for the past few months, seeing and hanging all over Mom." The kicked his bucket of rotten fish over. His face became one of rage and veins. "Kyle, thank-you. Tell me more.." he said in a dead calm voice. His son sat on his Green Bay Packers bed and sighed. The father went and turned the CD player to another song, one of more rage: Critical Acclaim and pulled the computer chair from the homework desk.

"Okay, Kyle, tell me what's been going on, please son." he said compassionately to his son who looked down to the stained blue carpet. He laid his hand on his shoulder and patted it gently with only a father's love. "Okay, it happened about six weeks ago, Marissa and I both started thinking it was okay, nothing would happen of it. First night, it was meh, didn't like the looks of him," he said and looked despicably back down to the man who was sleeping on the floor, drooling over the carpet, "still don't. I don't know what's happened but, since you left, it's been hell. Debt's stacked up, Mom thought about getting rid of the house." A cry escaped from his mouth and he fell forward, wrapping his arms around his dad who snugged him closer, tears coming to the scarred eyes and trickling down his face. The son heaved many times and didn't stop, the crying uncontrollable, no way to retain it any longer.

  • 11.15.2010 7:44 PM PDT