Status: In Progress
Cherry Soda Boy
Sanctuary
I slither out of my mother’s room like a phantom--cringing at the loud, exasperated moan that left her pale lips--and made my way downstairs, completely ignoring the bright blue bedroom that constantly ached for my presence. Instead, I opted to hide in my basement; my “man-cave” for lack of a better term. A room completely devoid of any personality or quality, that it was forgotten about for years until I re-stumbled upon in my early adolescences to reclaim as my own.
The large finished basement at one point been used to store unwanted presents my parents received during holidays and birthdays from extended family who barely shared our bloodline. It also seemed to hold the remnants of my father’s brief bachelor past, thus the ancient 90s bars which glowed with it’s purple and pink neon lights and black finish, and a combination pool/air hockey/foosball table which was often converted to a combination beer pong/flip cup/kings table when my friend’s took over. The posters featuring drunken shenanigans and the “Official Beer Pong House Rules” which were framed in black rimmed plastic were added additions from yours truly. There was also a really tackle sculpture of a penguin giving birth to a crow that my hipster cousin, “Nico”, gave us for Christmas two years ago. I have no idea what it’s supposed to mean, but it’s fuckin disturbing.
To the left of the basement is the living area. The beige hue of the walls completely clash with the purple and black plaid carpet and black leather couch and recliner set my mother bought when she lacked sense and style. In the corner was a broken bookshelf which held aged books ranging from Dr. Seuss to Dostoevsky and topics from The Yankees to the Illuminati and New World Order. Blocking the bookshelf was a hideous elephant floor lame with decorated with golden hieroglyphics and made as much sense as the equally ugly “abstract” painting my hipster cousin gave me for my twelfth birthday. It was supposed to represent the growth and puberty. It looked like a mess of deep black paint and a red color that suspiciously looked like menstrual blood. Don’t ask how I know the difference between menstrual and regular blood…
The coffee table was stolen one night from a neighbors curb and has an affectionate crack in the middle of the glass that looks like a spider web and is decorated with little trinkets collected from family vacations and a picture of a fake smiling family that came with the frame. The only thing that is actually really mine is the 52 inch plasma screen T.V that hangs proudly across the couch and is the focal point of the entire design. Below is a small black table which proudly homes an Xbox 360 Elite, PlayStation 3, and an N64 (because N64 is clearly the most superior gaming system in creation, and anyone who disagrees is either a hipster fuck who hasn’t given up his rusty Super Nintendo, or a frat boy asshole more concerned with good graphics than quality storyline).
The rest of the basement is mainly decorated with random pictures, floral paintings, and a shot glass collection from Spencer’s started by my friends and I one day at the mall. Some posters of my favorite bands hang sporadically throughout with complete lack of care; some of the edges ripped and frayed from complete mishandling.
It has the constant smell of old wood and weed laced with black cherry room spray Angela insist on drenching the air with due to her fear of smelling like her drug of choice.
It’s a home to the forgotten objects. Laid to rest 6 feet under. I stumbled upon this place in my time of need and never left. It didn’t feel stuffy like my room. Or a coffin. It felt…just like home.
Plus, I had my own entrance, so I could sneak my friend’s in as I pleased….not like anyone in the house would notice otherwise.
I chuck my book bag in the corner, with the promise I would break open at least one book and get started on studying. I flop onto the couch, becoming completely engulfed in the 15 year old fabric, that had worn out to the point it was comfortable. All my muscles relaxed, and the idea of even attempting to move to take off the constricting uniform quickly evaporated from my mind. I close my eyes and bask in the silence of the house. The creaks of the pipes. The settling of wood. The vague echoes of children’s screams coming from the neighborhood as the hold on to their last few moments of summer. Occasionally a truck’s screeching tires could be heard from a distance. Sometimes I could make out the phantom engine of my father’s car. The key in the lock, unhinging bolts.
And if I think hard enough, I hear my tiny footsteps dashing across the hard wood flooring.
I take a sharp intake of breath; I want a cigarette.
~*~
All I remember was being chased by zombies and not being able to find a gun, or any kind of weapon when the loud knocking cracked into the dream, and my eyes shot open. I am met with darkness; the bleak, untouched, darkness, you only find in a basement at midnight. My eyes fluttered getting used to the blackness and chasing away the dream into the back of my mind where it would be forgotten as easily as my morning breakfast.
A muffle Bang! Bang! Bang! came from the white wooden door with the small glass window too high to be of any real use. I sit up and capture the green light from the cable box reading “10:15”--not quite midnight, but late enough for me.
“Robin!” The door speaks! “I know you’re in there, I hear you fuckin’ snoring, asshole!”
His vocal waves obstructed by the door, I could only guess he was one of two people…due to his use of such colorful language.
“Who is it?” I shout right back, and the door shakes violently.
“It’s fuckin Devon! Who do you think it is!”
A murderer? Rapist after my young, milky white, body? The FBI? Anyone at this point.
“What’s the password?” I couldn’t help my allow a little snicker to rattle through my body.
“I swear….” The voice was low, “I will take your stupid-ass sword and ram it up your ass if you don’t answer the fuckin-”
I open the door with a smile, “Door? And it’s a katana.”
My smile quickly disappears when my eyes adjust the small yellow lights which hang on either side of the door. Devon looks the same from when I left him. Still in his school uniform; pressed to perfection. His hair still retained the spikiness from earlier in the day. And his skin, burnt save for the festering purple and red bruise which was forming around his left eye.
“You have drugs right?” He seethes, and I can’t tell if he is mad at me or at the man at the other end of that black eye.
“Uhh,” I stutter,” You know…I don’t exactly…”
“Come on, bro!” he brushes past me, immediately heading to the bar.
“Look, alcohol won’t help you now.” I shut the door and follow him. He rummages through the bar stacked high with Jack Daniels, Peach Schnapps, and Grey Goose.
“You have the shittiest taste in alcohol,” he snaps, before pulling out a full bottle of Svedka and storming to my couch.
“Sorry,” I roll my eyes, opening the fridge to grab a bottle of Corona and walking over to him. I flick on the ceiling lights to get a better look at the damage and hand him the beer.
“Get the crap away from me, bro!” he shoves my hand away as if I handed him something offensive like PBR or Keystone Light.
“Not for you! For your eye! You need to get something cold on that!”
“Then get me something better, you know I won’t touch Mexican bullshit,” he scoffs as he takes a swig from the clear bottle in his hand, not even flinching with the hard liquor comes in contact with the back of his throat. I cringe imagining the burning sensation traveling down his throat at this very moment. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” he continues, “You’re German and drink that crap.”
“So sorry, to offend you with my selection. Besides, it isn’t mine; it’s Angela’s.”
Actually, it is, but he’s right. And Angela has terrible taste in just about everything so he would be inclined to believe me.
There’s a long silence. He is staring into the black screen of the T.V, trying to make out his distorted reflection through the pixels, as I watch him; biting the side of my lip and waiting for some kind of cue. He shifts uncomfortably before bringing the bottle to his lips a second time. Then a third time after a very brief pause. So brief it was barely acknowledged by the cable box clock.
There’s also a phantom ticking coming from somewhere in the basement, though the only clock that exist is an old Star Wars clock from the 70s that hasn’t worked in years. Too lazy to change the batteries. But it was making a ticking sound from far off. Somewhere. The sound bounced off the wood walls and metal staircase, drenching the stark air with it’s monochromatic sound. Tick...tick…..tick….tick tick….tick….tick….tick. Tick..tick..tick..tick…Tick.tick.tick. Tock.
“What?” I say suddenly, breaking the silence.
“Nothing,” he doesn’t look away from the T.V, “I didn’t say anything.”
“Oh…sorry…” I look around the room. The old hardwood floors that were faded and littered with scuff marks. The lining of the purple carpet…which was gold lining and completely clashed now with the whole décor of the basement. The ceiling. The crack in the ceiling.
“He wasn’t drunk this time,” he finally says; each world slow and monotone that I barely registered it came from him.
“Oh…”
“I’m starting to believe he doesn’t have a drinking problem.”
“So he has a punching people in the face problem?” I can’t tell if I mean that to be a sarcasm or a joke, since my voice was almost as equally dull and lifeless as Devon’s at this point. But when he slowly turned and to glare at me with his one good eye, I want to instantly swallow my words. I also want to laugh….
“Go get me ice, assfuck.” He growls, and takes another shot of vodka.
“Can’t you just use the beer….I mean, it probably be better for you,” and not because I am too lazy to travel to the kitchen.
“Are you serious right now, bro!?”
“Fine,” I whine, “Jesus, no need to get so loud on me, bro.”
I stomp upstairs, nearly tripping over an imaginary dip in the wood when I reach the landing. The entire house is dark and silent, making it slightly more creepy than usual. I barely acknowledge the large mirrors and Holy Roman Era paintings that hang in the living room and dining room near the kitchen. I don’t know where my parents got their style, but they definitely need to revisit this whole depressing castle theme they have going.
Also, I am please to report that my mother wasn’t lying on the couch again, though the bottle of half empty vodka that I had left in on coffee table mysterious vanished.
I grab a towel and a handful of ice and sulked back downstairs where I could hear the sounds of the T.V now echoing from below. This was my cue to shut up for the rest of the night.
“Here,” I hand him the towel-o-ice, “Maybe you should stop drinking.”
“Maybe you should stop being such a faggot, fag,” he places the towel on his eye, wincing at the pain.
I don’t respond. I sit far away from him on the couch and don’t bother looking at him. The phantom ticking returns, mixing with the rhythmic clanking of the glass bottle in Devon’s hand and Family Guy playing on the T.V. It’s the episode where Stewie finally kills Lois.
And we won’t sleep tonight
The large finished basement at one point been used to store unwanted presents my parents received during holidays and birthdays from extended family who barely shared our bloodline. It also seemed to hold the remnants of my father’s brief bachelor past, thus the ancient 90s bars which glowed with it’s purple and pink neon lights and black finish, and a combination pool/air hockey/foosball table which was often converted to a combination beer pong/flip cup/kings table when my friend’s took over. The posters featuring drunken shenanigans and the “Official Beer Pong House Rules” which were framed in black rimmed plastic were added additions from yours truly. There was also a really tackle sculpture of a penguin giving birth to a crow that my hipster cousin, “Nico”, gave us for Christmas two years ago. I have no idea what it’s supposed to mean, but it’s fuckin disturbing.
To the left of the basement is the living area. The beige hue of the walls completely clash with the purple and black plaid carpet and black leather couch and recliner set my mother bought when she lacked sense and style. In the corner was a broken bookshelf which held aged books ranging from Dr. Seuss to Dostoevsky and topics from The Yankees to the Illuminati and New World Order. Blocking the bookshelf was a hideous elephant floor lame with decorated with golden hieroglyphics and made as much sense as the equally ugly “abstract” painting my hipster cousin gave me for my twelfth birthday. It was supposed to represent the growth and puberty. It looked like a mess of deep black paint and a red color that suspiciously looked like menstrual blood. Don’t ask how I know the difference between menstrual and regular blood…
The coffee table was stolen one night from a neighbors curb and has an affectionate crack in the middle of the glass that looks like a spider web and is decorated with little trinkets collected from family vacations and a picture of a fake smiling family that came with the frame. The only thing that is actually really mine is the 52 inch plasma screen T.V that hangs proudly across the couch and is the focal point of the entire design. Below is a small black table which proudly homes an Xbox 360 Elite, PlayStation 3, and an N64 (because N64 is clearly the most superior gaming system in creation, and anyone who disagrees is either a hipster fuck who hasn’t given up his rusty Super Nintendo, or a frat boy asshole more concerned with good graphics than quality storyline).
The rest of the basement is mainly decorated with random pictures, floral paintings, and a shot glass collection from Spencer’s started by my friends and I one day at the mall. Some posters of my favorite bands hang sporadically throughout with complete lack of care; some of the edges ripped and frayed from complete mishandling.
It has the constant smell of old wood and weed laced with black cherry room spray Angela insist on drenching the air with due to her fear of smelling like her drug of choice.
It’s a home to the forgotten objects. Laid to rest 6 feet under. I stumbled upon this place in my time of need and never left. It didn’t feel stuffy like my room. Or a coffin. It felt…just like home.
Plus, I had my own entrance, so I could sneak my friend’s in as I pleased….not like anyone in the house would notice otherwise.
I chuck my book bag in the corner, with the promise I would break open at least one book and get started on studying. I flop onto the couch, becoming completely engulfed in the 15 year old fabric, that had worn out to the point it was comfortable. All my muscles relaxed, and the idea of even attempting to move to take off the constricting uniform quickly evaporated from my mind. I close my eyes and bask in the silence of the house. The creaks of the pipes. The settling of wood. The vague echoes of children’s screams coming from the neighborhood as the hold on to their last few moments of summer. Occasionally a truck’s screeching tires could be heard from a distance. Sometimes I could make out the phantom engine of my father’s car. The key in the lock, unhinging bolts.
And if I think hard enough, I hear my tiny footsteps dashing across the hard wood flooring.
I take a sharp intake of breath; I want a cigarette.
~*~
All I remember was being chased by zombies and not being able to find a gun, or any kind of weapon when the loud knocking cracked into the dream, and my eyes shot open. I am met with darkness; the bleak, untouched, darkness, you only find in a basement at midnight. My eyes fluttered getting used to the blackness and chasing away the dream into the back of my mind where it would be forgotten as easily as my morning breakfast.
A muffle Bang! Bang! Bang! came from the white wooden door with the small glass window too high to be of any real use. I sit up and capture the green light from the cable box reading “10:15”--not quite midnight, but late enough for me.
“Robin!” The door speaks! “I know you’re in there, I hear you fuckin’ snoring, asshole!”
His vocal waves obstructed by the door, I could only guess he was one of two people…due to his use of such colorful language.
“Who is it?” I shout right back, and the door shakes violently.
“It’s fuckin Devon! Who do you think it is!”
A murderer? Rapist after my young, milky white, body? The FBI? Anyone at this point.
“What’s the password?” I couldn’t help my allow a little snicker to rattle through my body.
“I swear….” The voice was low, “I will take your stupid-ass sword and ram it up your ass if you don’t answer the fuckin-”
I open the door with a smile, “Door? And it’s a katana.”
My smile quickly disappears when my eyes adjust the small yellow lights which hang on either side of the door. Devon looks the same from when I left him. Still in his school uniform; pressed to perfection. His hair still retained the spikiness from earlier in the day. And his skin, burnt save for the festering purple and red bruise which was forming around his left eye.
“You have drugs right?” He seethes, and I can’t tell if he is mad at me or at the man at the other end of that black eye.
“Uhh,” I stutter,” You know…I don’t exactly…”
“Come on, bro!” he brushes past me, immediately heading to the bar.
“Look, alcohol won’t help you now.” I shut the door and follow him. He rummages through the bar stacked high with Jack Daniels, Peach Schnapps, and Grey Goose.
“You have the shittiest taste in alcohol,” he snaps, before pulling out a full bottle of Svedka and storming to my couch.
“Sorry,” I roll my eyes, opening the fridge to grab a bottle of Corona and walking over to him. I flick on the ceiling lights to get a better look at the damage and hand him the beer.
“Get the crap away from me, bro!” he shoves my hand away as if I handed him something offensive like PBR or Keystone Light.
“Not for you! For your eye! You need to get something cold on that!”
“Then get me something better, you know I won’t touch Mexican bullshit,” he scoffs as he takes a swig from the clear bottle in his hand, not even flinching with the hard liquor comes in contact with the back of his throat. I cringe imagining the burning sensation traveling down his throat at this very moment. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” he continues, “You’re German and drink that crap.”
“So sorry, to offend you with my selection. Besides, it isn’t mine; it’s Angela’s.”
Actually, it is, but he’s right. And Angela has terrible taste in just about everything so he would be inclined to believe me.
There’s a long silence. He is staring into the black screen of the T.V, trying to make out his distorted reflection through the pixels, as I watch him; biting the side of my lip and waiting for some kind of cue. He shifts uncomfortably before bringing the bottle to his lips a second time. Then a third time after a very brief pause. So brief it was barely acknowledged by the cable box clock.
There’s also a phantom ticking coming from somewhere in the basement, though the only clock that exist is an old Star Wars clock from the 70s that hasn’t worked in years. Too lazy to change the batteries. But it was making a ticking sound from far off. Somewhere. The sound bounced off the wood walls and metal staircase, drenching the stark air with it’s monochromatic sound. Tick...tick…..tick….tick tick….tick….tick….tick. Tick..tick..tick..tick…Tick.tick.tick. Tock.
“What?” I say suddenly, breaking the silence.
“Nothing,” he doesn’t look away from the T.V, “I didn’t say anything.”
“Oh…sorry…” I look around the room. The old hardwood floors that were faded and littered with scuff marks. The lining of the purple carpet…which was gold lining and completely clashed now with the whole décor of the basement. The ceiling. The crack in the ceiling.
“He wasn’t drunk this time,” he finally says; each world slow and monotone that I barely registered it came from him.
“Oh…”
“I’m starting to believe he doesn’t have a drinking problem.”
“So he has a punching people in the face problem?” I can’t tell if I mean that to be a sarcasm or a joke, since my voice was almost as equally dull and lifeless as Devon’s at this point. But when he slowly turned and to glare at me with his one good eye, I want to instantly swallow my words. I also want to laugh….
“Go get me ice, assfuck.” He growls, and takes another shot of vodka.
“Can’t you just use the beer….I mean, it probably be better for you,” and not because I am too lazy to travel to the kitchen.
“Are you serious right now, bro!?”
“Fine,” I whine, “Jesus, no need to get so loud on me, bro.”
I stomp upstairs, nearly tripping over an imaginary dip in the wood when I reach the landing. The entire house is dark and silent, making it slightly more creepy than usual. I barely acknowledge the large mirrors and Holy Roman Era paintings that hang in the living room and dining room near the kitchen. I don’t know where my parents got their style, but they definitely need to revisit this whole depressing castle theme they have going.
Also, I am please to report that my mother wasn’t lying on the couch again, though the bottle of half empty vodka that I had left in on coffee table mysterious vanished.
I grab a towel and a handful of ice and sulked back downstairs where I could hear the sounds of the T.V now echoing from below. This was my cue to shut up for the rest of the night.
“Here,” I hand him the towel-o-ice, “Maybe you should stop drinking.”
“Maybe you should stop being such a faggot, fag,” he places the towel on his eye, wincing at the pain.
I don’t respond. I sit far away from him on the couch and don’t bother looking at him. The phantom ticking returns, mixing with the rhythmic clanking of the glass bottle in Devon’s hand and Family Guy playing on the T.V. It’s the episode where Stewie finally kills Lois.
And we won’t sleep tonight
♠ ♠ ♠
OMG!!!!!1111111oneoneone zero four five. I know a year? I suck