It was the fourth day in a row that Larry stole my lunch money and slammed my head into my locker when I met Greg. I sat in the corner of the cafeteria, pretending to be mesmerized by my shoes when he chose to sit across from me. I ignored his presence at first, focusing harder on the hole on my right converse as he started to snap in front of my face. With a sigh, I looked up at him, bracing myself for insults about my curly red hair or cleft lip. His black hair hugged his face and for a seventh grader, he was insanely tall. His mouth opened and before words came out my feelings were already hurt.
But all he said was, "Hi, I'm Greg."
When he reached his hand out I flinched, but then accepted his handshake and replied, "I'm Skyler."
This became a daily occurrence; Greg would sit across from me, sometimes we would talk and sometimes we would sit in silence, Greg eating his hot lunch as I felt the emptiness of my pockets and stomach. Everyday, our conversations would become more and more lively as I realized Greg and I were more alike than I thought. We read the same comics, like the same music, and even got bullied by the same kid. We were outcasts, but we were outcasts together. Him for his lengthy awkwardness and absurd hairstyle, me for my short stature and cleft lip. The more I learned about Greg, the more I liked him. But there were a few things I couldn't get over about him.
Like the way he would scowl at Larry as he played basketball during lunch, his eyes becoming glazed over with hate as if he was entranced by the basketball punching the gym floor. Or how everyday, once Larry cleaned the tater tots or pizza off of his plate, he would lift the Styrofoam tray to his mouth and lick the plate clean. His tongue grazing every inch of it until it was spotless, and his eyes occasionally breaking from the plate to look at me with an empty stare that only became full again once the Styrofoam left his tongue.
But I was desperate for a friend, and that is what Greg became. Eventually, we began getting together outside of school to trade Pokemon cards and read DC comic books. I remember the first time he came to my house, I scrambled around cleaning the empty beer bottles off the counters and erasing the embarrassing messages my mother leaves me in-between jobs. We stayed up until she came home, past midnight, playing Smash Bros. Brawl and fighting about what fictional characters would win in a fight. We would place bets on our characters, forcing the loser to go to the refrigerator to get more soda or put in a new game. Anytime I would get the upper hand, Greg would pull a line that became a sort of cliche for him, "Well my parents are doctors and they told me so I would know."
Greg's doctor parents were his everything, it was his go to defense mechanism to credit his mother or father with being an endless fountain of knowledge. I would always refute with, "Shut up, Greg, you don't have parents." How would I know, I had never met them. After the first sleepover at my house, anytime we ever decided to hang out he would insist we go to my house. I didn't mind at first, but I would be lying if I said I wasn't curious. After a long night of Super Smash, I decided to take the skills I have been developing to my advantage.
"Greg, this is the last game of the night. What are our stakes here?" I yawned.
"Dr. Pepper?" Greg replied casually as he shook his empty can above his mouth, collecting the final dark drops into his mouth.
"How about if I win, I get to go to your house next weekend. And meet these genius parents of yours."
"I don't know about that, dude. I'd have to make sure it's okay."
"It will be. Let's do this."
I selected Kirby and Greg chose Link, and our epic battle began. This was the most important game of Smash that I would ever play, and up until that point I hadn't taken anything more seriously.
I won. And the following weekend, I was towing a backpack full of games and comics up a white driveway towards a large, white, unfamiliar house. The day was fantastic, and I was counting on it getting even better. Larry wasn't at school, and I could afford the pizza dippers. That day, Greg and I both licked our plates clean. Occasionally locking eyes from around our plates, holding in our laughter the best we could.
I lifted my fist and knocked on his door, and Greg answered. I stepped inside without even asking, my excitement overstepping my manners by a mile. The inside of his house was spotless; the complete opposite of mine. White walls were complemented by white furniture that was complemented by white decoration.
"So, where are they?" I asked Greg, referring to his parents.
"They're downstairs, we aren't allowed down there right now." Greg replied with a straight face.
I noticed that the television was on, and that it was insanely loud. Gunshots echoed through the house from the action flick that blared in the living room, and I fished for the opportunity to replace them with the sound of Kirby's battle-cry. "When can we play Gamecube, Greg?" "When will your parents come back upstairs?" "Greg, when is dinner?" Damn, I must have been annoying. And that's probably what caused him to snap.
He grabbed my arm and said, "Fine, let's go get them. They will feed you, okay?" And he guided me towards a door that presumably led downstairs, to the basement. With a purpose, Greg ran down the steps with me in tow. He was acting fast, like he was ripping off a band-aid. As soon as I entered the staircase, a putrid and unfamiliar smell that I will never forget filled my sinuses. As a matter of fact, I can smell it now. For as I turned the corner at the bottom of Greg's staircase, two adult bodies lye tangled together, chunks of flesh missing or strewn in places they didn't belong.
With a scream I turned to run back up the stairs, but Greg wouldn't let me. He held me tight and with no emotion until the smell of his dead parents and the force of his grip were the only things I could experience. I cried and begged for my mom, imagining her in the dread-locks of flesh and bone, and as soon as the thought entered my mind I raised my knee and landed a heavy blow to where Greg's thighs meet. In the same moment he screamed, I swear I heard another yelp come from behind me. But I didn't care. I bolted up the stairs, my eyes held open by only fear, and tried to block out the screams of pain coming from behind me. Because as Greg's screams stopped, Larry's began.
Submitted September 21, 2015 at 06:38AM by MikeyTCO http://ift.tt/1V4f89h WritingPrompts
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