The Hell Of A Week

My house, my family and my life headed down a conveyor belt towards an incinerator. It was quite a rush.

Chris spent a week in our home as a resident and not on vacation. He found a very different environment from the weekends of escape he’d known in the past. To summarize, he found my rules “too strict”, the rent “too high” and thought it was ridiculous of us to insist that he try to find a job.

“We all have our own reasons for wanting to get off the island,” he told me, the moment he arrived.

On Wednesday he walked to the corner for cigarettes and didn’t come home. I drove around looking for him in the pouring rain, worried sick. My mother lectured me for letting him out of my sight, insisting he was “long gone”. Brad went into the local tavern and asked if anyone had seen a guy wearing a white suit.

The whole row of gentlemen laughed. One spoke up, “You mean, The Darkness? HAHA! Ya know I told him he coulda used a fake name like ‘Phil’.”

Instant mortification for Brad, like when my brother mowed our lawn in the same suit two sizes too large.

He had already sauntered home by the time we got back to the house.

Now I can say that I tried. I forced him to admit powerlessness, made him reimburse us for the hassles he’d caused and even tried to reason using logic. Sadly, he has no real intention of becoming a better person.

As I write, he is riding back home with all of his belongings. I offered him a bit of life and he refused it (after using all the toilet paper, eating all of the food and bitching up a storm).

The worst of him will not break.

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