Pizza Time

Teeth chattering, I passed a small house warmly radiating good cheer, and brilliantly lit by what seemed like several miles of Christmas lights. Ah, yes. Christmas. It was only a few hours away. The atmosphere seemed inviting with the softly glowing plastic Santa, and a handful of plastic reindeer swathed with an ever-thickening coat of snow. I slowed as I walked just outside their Christmas tree light studded picket fence, and breathed in the aroma of good cheer, and a happy family. They were cooking pecan and pumpkin pies in there somewhere, and I could dimly hear the soft rumble of an apparent party which might have started recently from the number of expensive cars parked haphazardly out in front of the house, and scattered a ways up and down the street. Some of the cars must have arrived very recently, judging from the thin glaze of snow on the hoods of some of the cars. With a bark of laughter, the front door popped open, and two children ran out into the snow squealing in delight. I decided to hurry on, in case anyone might come out to check on them, and think I'm some sort of child molester.

The walk took longer than I thought, taking me nearly an hour to slog through the snow and slush before I fetched up at my door, breathing hard, and fumbling for the keys with numb fingers gone stiff from the cold. I slid the key home, and using both hands, turned it the full rotation necessary to unlock the bolt. Sounding like a muffled gunshot, the bolt snapped back, and I stumbled into my darkened apartment.

Fumbling around, I stripped nearly naked right there in the entryway after locking the door. I gathered the clothes up in a bundle, and made my way across the apartment with only my fuzzy memory to guide my path. I barked my shins only twice. Slipping the bathroom door open, decided to forgo with the light, and dropped the wet clothes on the tile floor, then turned and carefully tip toed my way directly to the bathtub. Spinning the knob of the hot water with both hands, I drew myself a bath in the freezing darkness of my apartment.

Slipping my the last of my clothing off, and tossing it in the direction I thought was the clothes hamper, or my room, whichever came first, I sank into the water and clenched my teeth. This was not the first time I had been so cold for so long, I knew what was to come next would hurt a lot, ostensibly for a long time. I was not to be disappointed. I sat in the cramped tub, my breath hissing though my teeth, as my body throbbed in time with my heart. A wave of pain crested over me slowly as I lay there. Each of the following, smaller waves threatened to drag me under, as time seemed to trickle by in a crippled rhythm to the stuttering beat of my heart. After a small eternity passed, I stood slowly as tepid water sluiced off my body in dripping sheets. I decided I might as well get a bath since I was already wet. A short time later, I grabbed a towel that didn't smell very moldy, and dried myself off carefully.

After I pulled the plug, the tub croaked a mournful gurgle as the dirty, sudsy water fell down the drain in modest measures as I pushed the door open with a blind hand. Picking my way across the hall, I stepped lightly into my room until my foot buried itself in a pile of clothing. Swiping something off the top, I gave it a quick sniff to confirm which pile it was. It smelled like the clean clothes. Hopefully, this wasn't something clean that wandered into the dirty pile by mistake. By feel, I found a clean sweater, some sweat pants, a pair of warm socks, underwear, and a shirt. The front felt stiff, so it must be one of my printed ones, whichever one it was, I did not care. Hopping with alacrity into my clothing as the cold air prodded in sensitive places, I made my way into the living room, and toed on my computer, then as the machine chirped and squeaked, I walked into the miniscule kitchen to find the fridge.

The monitor came on slowly, bathing the room in an eerie ethereal light. The cheap speakers chirped tinnily at the same time I found the fridge. I opened the fridge, half expecting it to be warmer than the air outside. I was only a little disappointed when it seemed colder. I pulled out a jug of apple cider, and by fridge light, located a clean mason jar to pour it into.

I nudged the door shut with my foot absently as I turned and walked back to the ghostly-lit living room sipping my ice-cold apple cider. My one indulgence, besides the cider, is my Internet connection. I don't have a telephone, per se, and I don't have a TV, but I do have decently fast access times to the Internet. My instant messenger came up with a toot, as did IRC. A few handfuls of messages popped up, tiling over each other, and I dutifully answered each one. I checked my e-mail with a soft sigh, as an mp3 stretched the speakers to the edge of their narrow limits.

A few messages, all from my family, almost all of them the same form letter I had been getting every Christmas for the past five years. I stopped responding to them two years ago, when I gave up. Perhaps, they did love me, in their own crazy way. But I was not willing to accept their feelings on their terms, and they were unwilling to accept my terms either. An impasse, no matter how you look at it. I trashed the letters after skimming through them to see if they actually had any content worth reading. Unsurprisingly, they didn't. I heaved a heavy sigh as I thought sadly,oh well…

A certain analytical part of me figured they'd be dead and buried in a few years anyway, and then my problem would solve itself. I ran my atomic clock program, and reset my computer's clock back by a few minutes. Opening the clock properties, I watched the second hand sweep around the face of the clock until all three arms met at twelve.

"Merry Christmas, Sean." I said to my darkened apartment, half expecting an answer from the bare walls or the three pieces of furniture in the otherwise bare apartment; my scrounged bed, the scrounged shallow table the monitor sat on, or the scrounged beanbag I slouched sullenly on.

With no talking furniture to disturb me, I finished swotting up on a few financial housekeeping chores and plugged a few pages in my personal journal before I shut the computer down and stumbled off to bed.

Merry Christmas.

Indeed.

Chapter Two

- Beginnings -

The alarm clock buzzed with a teeth-grinding wail, fit to wake the dead. Which is why I bought it. It would even wakeme up. With a snort, I exploded into action, slapping the alarm clock off, jumping to my feet, yanking my shirt off and slipping on the uniform shirt while pulling on my ratty sneakers. With a final tug to straighten the uniform, and a last slap on the shoes to tighten the laces, I placed my palm against the door, and stood, confused, as I read my hastily scrawled, almost illegible schedule taped neatly to the door at eye level. I didn't have to go into work today? I stood warily, groggily reading the schedule again, with my hand on the doorknob, rubbing my eyes with the other hand as I tried to blearily remember what day today was, and/or why I wasn't supposed to go to work.

I swear I have an abacus for a brain. Most people have expensive digital calculators, and some even have those graphing calculators deep in their skulls, but me? I have no problem doing math, err... sort of, but trying to remember anything else? Problematical, at best. My brain felt like the squirrel cage powering my thoughts needed oiling; it squeaked too loudly. Oh yeah. I have a day off this week. Christmas. Right. It felt naughty to have a day off, like I was supposed to be doing something, and wasn't, and I certainly couldn't recall the last day I had off.

It had to be at least several months ago, I thought distractedly as I ran a hand through my hair and yawned, double-checking the lock out of habit, before I stumbled leisurely to my computer, toeing it on by the watery light weakly shining through the gaps in the closed blinds. With a grimace, I left my tinny speakers off to spare me from its startup chirps, clicks, and bleats of low decibel, high frequency noise.

As I settled into my seat, my thoughts ran in a familiar, and well-worn rut. I should get a cat or something like that, I thought idly, something to share my existence with, y'know? While on the other hand, I do have my computer -- my seven hundred dollar, one hundred pound memo keeper, among a few handy other things. While being a virtual Swiss Army Knife of things to me, I can't really pet the computer. Well, I can, and then I'd think I'd need to get some serious help. And it's not like I'm lonely, really. I talk to plenty of people on-line, and at work. But to find something to share my existence, something to care for, and something to make me feel less... ephemeral was rather attractive idea right now.

But I'm not lonely, I snorted in derisive amusement, and brought up my instant messaging service, followed a split second later by my IRC interface. A few messages popped up, then a dozen more filled the screen as a half dozen of my on-line friends noticed me and struck up a conversation all at once. Amid my replies typed at a frenzied pace, I checked my e-mail inbox, fully expecting it to be empty. I was surprised by a lone, single, email from some address I didn't remember seeing before. My curiosity piqued, I idly wondered who it was since my private e-mail address, while not exactly a secret, was not something that I talked about very much. Certainly, I had a public e-mail address to sign up for things on-line, but I only cleaned the box every few weeks or so to keep address active and to conserve the meager amount of space that fills up with junk mail at such a dismally brisk speed, it seems almost uncanny. I hesitated for a minute, torn evenly between reading it, and trashing it out of spite. There was no subject header, so it probably was junk mail, but it was in my private e-mail address, which means it has to be someone I know, or someone who knows someone I know. Shrugging my shoulders, I opened it with a stab from my light pen.

The message text was...odd. The writing style didn't coincide with anyone that I knew that knew my address, and to add to my exasperation, the message was also scandalously short and dismally vague on top of that. For a moment, I toyed with the idea of trashing it and dismissing it as a prank, but something within it caught my eye. More precisely, it wasn't what the message said on paper that caught my attention, but rather, what it didn't say. I could almost palpably feel something amiss as I read it. I love mysteries. I love reading a well-written mystery, and I love picking apart real life mysteries. This was the closest thing to entertainment I had scheduled for today, other than seeing if icicles would grow from the dripping water faucet in the kitchenette. Kitchenette, such a long word for such a miniscule area. I stretched, trying to keep the blood flowing to my feet. Stomach grumbling, I sighed as I stood, and shuffled to the kitchen to feed it cold water. With any luck, I'd fool it into thinking it was full of something. Other than water, I mean.

Wiping my mouth with the back of hand, I frowned at the thin beams of runny sunlight on the stain-camouflaging brown carpet. Did I just spend hours talking on line? It didn't feel like it... I glanced at the computer clock, and shook my head. Sean, I chided myself gently, you're losing track of time. Again. Isn't that the first step to getting old? No, I thought that was balding. Well, the gut would be the first step, I think, but I hardly eat enough as is.

I chortled and imagined myself at a classy restraint speaking to a finely dressed waiter, and surrounded by expensively dressed men in women in the best of formal wear. I could hear him say, as I leaned against my freezing living room wall, "Sir, which flavor of ramen do you want? I hear the shrimp is good this time of year." Of course, I'd hum and cluck my tongue at the small selection of foods, then agree to the shrimp ramen, with the white wine. My order would arrive in a silver bow, I decided suddenly, with a platinum fork, and I would feast on the shrimp flavored ramen, and in a crystal goblet, with a gold ring around the rim, and it would be the best water -- I mean white wine -- that I've ever tasted.

Shaking my head warmly as I reemerged into reality, I jumped at the quiet knock at my door. My heart racing, I sprinted into the bedroom, and dove into the clean clothes pile in one fluid move. I scrambled for a second before my hands came to rest on the one gift from my family I haven't sold or thrown in the dumpster. My Uncle Barry's gift to me -- my own Glock. I slipped the magazine into the butt of the pistol, and then thumped it to make certain it was seated correctly. With deft fingers, I ratcheted the slide back as I sprinted to the door. The slide rammed home with a sharp metal on metal clack before I thumbed off the safety.

Breathing hard, I withdrew the bolt on the door silently, and stepped away. I had heard of a rash of violent robberies at about this time last year in the neighborhood happening with the same start: A soft knock, then once the door was opened, the intruder would shoot the person that answered that door, then steal anything that wasn't nailed down before the police arrived. When Uncle Barry had heard of this, he showed up one night on my doorstep with a gun, and a plan. He gave me one of his custom Glocks, and over the next two weeks, taught everything I needed to know about how to use it.

I trust Uncle Barry; he's one of the few of my family that I trust, and it doesn't hurt that he was an ex- Navy SEAL. As I backed away from the door, and stood the way Uncle Barry taught me, I kept on thinking that never in my entire life would I ever think I would ever use his dubious 'gift'. I also kept on telling myself that I didn't have anything to hide behind, but I trusted my reflexes honed from thousands of hours playing hundreds of games.

I shouted, "It's open!" as I sighted a little right of center on the closed door, saving myself the split second it would take to shift my aim when the door was opening. The doorknob rattled for a second before the door sighed open, letting the wind into the apartment. Ignoring the rapidly rising goose bumps on my neck from the wind, my finger pulled the slack out of the trigger when a slim hand grasped the edge and pushed against the rarely greased hinges of the door. Time seemed to crawl by to my fear heightened senses as the door squeaked open. The door opened fully, and I automatically centered the brilliantly gleaming emerald sights precisely one and one half inch above the bridge of my sisters' small, wind-chapped nose. Her eyes met mine for a frozen moment, before she closed her eyes, shrieked, and dropped to the ground next to a small suitcase, her hands reflexively covering her head.

After a hazy second, I realized that it wasn't a robbery; it was a genial visit by my sister. And then I wanted to use the gun on myself, instead, and spare myself the visit. Instead, I released the trigger slowly, and took a brace of deep, calming breaths. Thumbing the safety on, I shoved the gun in the bib of my sweater, and started apologizing for nearly killing her. Not too hard though, she was family, and family was generally not welcomed in my neighborhood. I went to some painful extremes trying to make that abundantly clear to every one of them. I think it was when I had the police escort my mother out of my apartment when it finally sank in. I was surprised it took that long. No, I was hoping it wouldn't take that long, but I secretly feared it would.

Closing the door with my off hand, "I'm sorry," I said briskly as I pulled my sister to her feet with a tug, "What are you doing here?"

"You nearly shot my head off!" She screeched as she frantically shook her arm free.

I let go abruptly, folding my arms stoically as I felt a sour smile tug wistfully at my lips, all the while watching her trying to recoil away from me without actually recoiling away from me. Staring at her unsympathetically, I almost-growled, "Look, I already apologized for that. Now state why you are here, or please leave my home."

She spat angrily, "Or what? What are you going to do, shoot me?"

I thought about it for a second before nodding coolly, "Yes, I think I might."

Her breath caught, and she stared at me in terror before her eyes dropped to the floor. With her short hair flung forward, hiding her face from my less than amused gaze.

"Well? Why are you here?" I demanded harshly.

She stood silently, unmoving.

With a barely silenced snarl, my patience for this foolishness had ended, and I grabbed her shoulder roughly to expedite the process of her leaving. I opened the door explosively behind her, and she shuddered as I readied to roughly shove her through open doorway. As I started pivoting my weight, she looked up into my eyes, and asked me in a small, broken voice, as tears streamed from her bloodshot eyes, leaving visible streaks down her ruddy cheeks, "Please, brother, can I stay with you?"

One part of me wanted to push her away, and ignore her and any pissant problem she might have. Instead of pushing, I inexplicably found my grip tightening on her shoulder until her breath hissed between her teeth in pain, as I found myself asked her in a quiet, deadly voice, "What happened." Her wretched smile broke my heart.

Something to share my life, indeed...

* * * * *

I sat with my back against the icy wall, sipping near scalding tap water. My sister, on the other hand, sat trembling a little in my beanbag chair a few feet away, her cold hands shook only slightly as she tightly clutched a half full glass of piping hot apple cider, occasionally bringing it to her lips and sipping gratefully as she told me the story. I found her tale a bleakly familiar one: she had gotten into an argument over something seemingly trivial, and our father's elegantly persuasive counterargument was to backhand her. For the last time, apparently. So she packed a suitcase, our mother called her a whore, and my sister walked out. My story was not much different.

Well, it was slightly different in a very important way: I decided to leave before I killed our father in cold blood. I admit fully that I was a feral child back then, and I'd like to think that I've mellowed out since then. In the dim light of my living room, my monitor cast soft edged shadows, which only seemed to emphasize the bruises on her cheek and lip, and my rage simmered, powerless. Perhaps I was not as mellow as I thought.

Elizabeth took another sip and scrubbed her moist eyes with the back of her sleeve before finishing, "So I left. I hitchhiked across the state to get over here. Then I asked a few policemen how to get here when I was in the area, and one thankfully dropped me off just outside, and that's how I got here."

Alone, in the truest sense of the word, and nearly broke, she made her way to the dimly remembered, the loathed, yet still loved, lost son, the only human on the face of the earth she thought she could trust: Me. Indeed.

"So. Well. Indeed." I said, as painful memories from when I left/was kicked out mocked me from a safe distance in my mind.

The Glock weighed heavily in the bib of my sweatshirt as I mulled over my few, crippled, options. Option A: I could keep her here, but I barely had enough money for food for the rest of the month for myself, let alone another hungry mouth. Option B: I could throw her out. As much as I don't like family, blood is still thicker than water, no matter how frozen it was. I wouldn't throw her out, as long as she didn't actively oppose/fuck with me. Option C: I could tell our parents. I snorted contemptuously. Fat chance of that happening. I would sooner slit my wrists than tell them anything. Crap, I thought feelingly, every choice sucked. It wasn't that I really expected something different, but I do like to be surprised, once and a great while.