This seemed to be a hit in English class last semester, maybe someone here will like it.
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“Someday, and that day me never come, I’ll call upon you to do a service for me. But until that day accept this justice as a gift, on the…” CLICK the blue glow in the room dims quickly as the door downstairs slams. The heavy sound of worn boot heels beat the loose linoleum floors below and the scent of motor oil and Jack Daniels drift up the stairs, I hear the slapping and screams with mother downstairs, she’s crying now, I’ve grown to ignore it. Best pretend to be asleep.
On the way to school the following day I ran over the corpse of a squirrel with my bicycle it would seem a car had flattened not long before. I always leave the house early. We line up organized by grade outside on the pavement. We turn to the flag and pledge our allegiance before we begin our day.
It’s Friday today, the parking lot of East Jr. High school is full. Men and women in lab coats, uniforms, suits and ties, approach the school. It’s career day. I make my way to home room and take my seat. The usuals present themselves, the doctors, the lawyers, the bankers, their wives with pearl necklaces and diamond earrings stand and softly applaud before their husbands kiss their cheeck smile and take his part in the routine. They do this every year, I cannot understand why.
It’s 3:30 now, I roll my bike from the rack, it’s a bit heavy. After some inspection I find a small bone piercing the tire…Damn.
20 minutes now I’ve been carrying this bike, there’s a convenience store nearby. I check my pocket and find enough change for a candy bar. I enter the store, leaving my bike outside. I pay for my Butterfinger and make for the door, I see my father’s truck through the windows and stop, there’s a woman in the passenger seat, not my mother. She is young. I’ll tell mother.
The sun is down now, and my mother, my kid brother and I sit down to watch a TV show about a boy named Beaver and his trivial troubles in life, this show is terrible. Mother sais little this evening, she holds her arms over our shoulders.
Father is home. “Is dinner ready?” he grunts. “It’s in the oven,” mother replies. His heavy boots thump through to the kitchen. CRASH “Get in here! Cleanup this mess!” my brother starts to cry and takes cover beside the couch. He’s drunk again.
“Why don’t you get your other bitch to clean it up?!” mother shouts with tears. Alcohol fumes spew from father’s mouth “Clean it up!” he shouts with unblinking wide eyes. Mother reaches for a glass from the drying rack and shatters it at his feet. His eyes red he storms from the room. His boots thunder clumsily out of the kitchen. Mother rushes to my brother and me. Her eyes full of tears and shaking “We’re leaving.” My brother is crying like a baby who’s had his wind knocked out.
She guides us to the door, we hear father shouting, not even words at this point. Everything is black.

Mother’s eyes open slowly. “We couldn’t do anything to help the boys, and your husband turned the gun on himself afterwards,” Mother closes her eyes again; a lone tear trails into her ear. She smiles.