Ajar

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Ajar Page 10

by Marianna Boncek


  “You Woodard bastards,” the cop growled into my ear. “You need to get the hell out of town. You should have died in that fire.”

  “You fucking bastard.” I spat in his face. He slammed me up against the wall, face first. I fought hard. They dragged me out to the car, I refused to walk. Then they threw me into the car, purposely slamming my head against the car frame.

  I was photographed and fingerprinted. I spent the night in a cinderblock cell that smelled heavily of urine. In the morning I was released without even a ticket. I walked home.

  When I entered the house, it seemed eerily quiet.

  “Mom?” I called out.

  My head hurt where the police had smashed it. I felt sore all over. Part of it was probably from the accident, the other part from my arrest.

  “Mom?”

  I walked down the hall. The door to her room was partially open. I pushed at it. She was lying face down on the rug, vomit spilled all around her head. Bottles of painkillers were scattered around her, too. These had been my prescription from my beating at the high school. I hadn’t realized there were any left. She was blue and she was not breathing. I tried to roll her over but she was stiff; rigor mortis had already set in. I sat on the floor next to her a long time. The sky was beginning to darken when I finally got up.

  I went to my room and took down my backpack. I put in it a few changes of underwear, socks, a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. There was nothing else to take because it had all been lost in the fire. I went out in the dining room and into the top drawer of the server and took out what money my mother had there. It was only $100. Where she had gotten it, I didn’t know. Maybe my uncle had given it to her. I left the house without saying good-bye to her. I walked for a few miles and then put out my thumb and someone stopped and picked me up.

  I never went back. I suppose my aunt and uncle gave my mother a burial. I really have no idea. I don’t know what happened to the house. I changed my name to Woods. No one knows my history or that I am the brother of the Sawyer Shooter. I hitchhiked around for a long time but I finally settled in a small town where no one’s ever heard of the Sawyer Shooter. I spend my time now looking for odd jobs, just enough money for booze and cigarettes. I don’t like to work at one place for any length of time. People ask questions when they start to get to know you and I’m not ready to answer questions. I visit graveyards a lot to think of Lindy. I hope she is waiting for me somewhere. I keep waiting for my forever sleep.

  My life always feels undone. I feel like I have left the stove turned on somewhere, the back door ajar or the iron plugged in. Nothing is ever complete. Nothing will ever truly be over.

  ~The End~

  About the Author

  Marianna Boncek is an English teacher, author, and poet. She grew up in the Sullivan County Catskills and is a recent transplant to the Hudson Valley. She has a particularly keen interest in “lost” local history. Her two books Gone Missing in New York and The Spooky Hudson Valley were published by Schiffer Publications. Her poems have appeared in The Waywanda Review, The River Reporter, Home Planet News and Lifeblood. She is a member of the Goat Hill poets.

  [email protected]

  Other Works by the Author with Melange

  An American Noel

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