Shallow Creek

Settling into his new bed highlighted a few pain points in his legs, reminding him of his run with Marcus earlier in the day.  He made a promise to himself that by the time he left, he’d beat Marcus in a sprint.  Goals were important, otherwise he’d drive himself nuts with the monotony of civilian life.

He’d spent a boring day bumming around the house, reading a book, doing some yard work, and then working out.  Sure, that kind of lifestyle suited some people, but Brendan needed more action.  He’d probably never again have a use for his more interesting skills, but after so many years of hurry-up-and-wait, he was tired of just waiting.  There had to be a hurry-up portion to offset all the boredom of idleness.

Glass smashed nearby, far too close to be outside.  Brendan leapt from the bed, shedding the sheets tangled in his legs.  His hand automatically grabbed the poker from the fireplace as he slunk through the dark living room towards the front door.  An arm protruded through the broken stained glass to the right of the door, its hand probing for the deadbolt release.

Two swats from the iron poker sent someone screaming into the night.  Brendan reached for the handle, a murderous rage ready to explode on this idiotic would-be burglar.  His hand stopped when glass shattered in the back of the house.

Keeping to the shadows, Brendan caught movement ahead in the hallway crossing in front of him, towards the backdoor.  The lights flared to life, revealing an old lady in curlers pointing a shotgun at him.  Instinct drove him to ground as the gun boomed loudly in the enclosed space.  Brendan rolled right and looked up to see his dad pointing his mom’s barrel to the ceiling.  His mother just stared at him, wide-eyed and shocked.

Ears ringing and humming wildly, Brendan nodded to his dad and then ran past his parents to the backdoor.  The large glass pane occupying the top half of the door had been smashed in, but no one stood on the other side.

“Shotgun scared those junkies off,” his dad said, standing right behind him.  The voice sounded like they were all standing underwater.  Brendan tried to shake the sensation out of his head.  His blood was still boiling, but he had to keep his cool.  His father’s voice must’ve knocked his mom out of her trance.

“I’m so sorry,” his mother exclaimed, embracing him ardently.  “I forgot you were here.”

“No problem.” He gently shrugged her off.

He exited through the backdoor and surveyed the empty yard.  A dog barked a couple of houses down to his left, and his first instincts drove him to chase the sounds, but instead he reentered the house and headed back to his couch.  It wasn’t worth chasing delinquents into the night for some vigilante justice.  At this point he’d have a hard time keeping out of trouble with the cops if he roughed up some punks on the other side of the neighborhood.

With his heart still pulsing like a nineties’ techno beat, Brendan sat on the couch and turned on the lamp to see what damage his mother’s ill-advised shot had caused.  Thankfully for everyone in the house, his dad’s TV still stood strong.  The scatter from the shot had perforated the sheetrock in a jagged circle, but had missed the most precious appliance in the whole place.  Life would go on.  His parents were still standing in the doorway whispering to each other, and Brendan really didn’t want an invitation into that conversation, so he avoided eye contact and tried to put his bedding back together.  On cue, his mother joined him on the couch.

“Are you sure you’re okay, honey?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Can I get you something?”

His father clomped into the room. “You can get him a brush and pan to sweep up the mess those meth addicts left.”

“Marcus mentioned the meth problem,” he said.  “I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

“Damn junkies break into houses all the time to steal crap they can pawn for cash.”

“All the time, huh?”

“Oh yes,” his mother replied.  “The police even think there’s a large factory nearby, or laboratory, or whatever they call those places.  But they haven’t found it.”

“Probably those damn Mexicans again,” his father added as he claimed his rightful place on his cracked leather throne.  Apparently the old man wasn’t kidding about Brendan cleaning up the broken glass.  “I figured they’d move on after they got their Spanish-speaking asses shot up out in the woods.”

Not caring to listen to the diatribe that was fixing to start, Brendan sought a distraction.

“Mom, why don’t you call the sheriff while I take care of the glass?”

She nodded vigorously.

“Okay, that sounds good,” she said as they walked towards the back of the house.  “It’s so nice to have you back in town, Brendan.”

Brendan looked down at his mom and returned the smile.  When his dad clicked the TV on, Brendan resigned himself to a sleepless night in his brother’s bed, after he cleaned up the broken glass.