She spotted him walking home from school and honked. There goes Sam, she thought. I wonder if he had a good day at school.
The slow realization she wasn't even driving took three steps to fructate. First, her hand rolled out from under her head. She opened her eyes. Then, she saw the smoke. She felt the heat. Her house was on fire.
Three days later, she thought, There goes Sam. He's walking home from school and he doesn't know what's in store. She pulled into a driveway in front of his path. "Sam. I had a dream this happened. My home was destroyed in a housefire."
"Get the fuck out of my head, Sam." Her eyes opened. She grabbed for the comfort blanket; home. It had all been a dream.
She had fallen asleep stoned and left the coffee pot on. She didn't even know why she bothered turning it off. It was designed with safety in mind. Like a condom she wore on her head to keep ill wills out, she read the warning label, her head leaned against the refrigerator:
TURN OFF WHEN NOT IN USE
Her son, Sam--what would he think when they opened the gift shop? Would he know it was a front?
Was he even their son? He was so strange.
Sam adapted well to working at the store. His grand schemes for improving profits seemed to bring the family together. He questioned rarely the extra business going on with his adopted parents. He was easily pacified with simple answers to explain the extra cash and the strange hourly work schedule.
In two years, all meth production had stopped. Her house hadn't burned up. Sam was buying his parents' business. Sam graduated. But she wondered, falling asleep, stoned as hell; Did we deserve Sam?
Sam, having found an escape in drugs, nearly lost the business. He went to his mother and asked what kept her going through the first years of their first gift shop. She said something he never forgot.
"Sam, I need to tell you the truth. Our gift shop was a front for us to continue doing drugs after the arrest. We thought we were going to jail, and we needed a cover. We lost all our friends, and we had to do something. You're the reason we succeeded. It's because of you that we got off drugs."
Sam knew it, but he didn't; he knew everything but the truth. He apologized for not finding out sooner, and went to work that day with a grave new understanding of the nature of his adoption.
He burned their house down, and made it look like a meth lab explosion. He said, "I believe they didn't mean any harm," to the police. And he began his nightly ritual of burning weed, and inhaling the fumes, until he fell asleep... dreaming of his real parents...
"Get the fuck out of my head, Sam!"
The story is about a dreamer, Sam. I began by trying to get out of (or into) the head of an irresponsible mother. She foreshadows the ending in her dreams, which are caused by Sam.
Sam was adopted by his extended family. His biological parents were arrested, and his adopted parents were in the same shit. He saves them by taking an interest in their business.
Sam literally dreams for his adopted mother. He's got psychic powers, man. But he becomes a monster and burns his adopted parents' house down. Sam is forced to live in a nightmare, so he gives people nightmares.
Submitted November 14, 2014 at 02:50PM by CaesarNaples2 http://ift.tt/1xns5Um WritingPrompts
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