NightCurse

We arrived in about ten minutes; we had driven to his house in an old jet-black Corvette. His house was a light-cream color with a black roof. It was a rather small house, but that made it look kind of cute. He had a flower garden of red and purple poppies, sunflowers, a lily plant, and about five roses. Almost all of the flowers were dead, however, except for one rich-red rose in the left corner of the garden. He sent me inside for a few minutes as he stayed outside. I flung off my World Industries black and pink sneakers and chose a mahogany kitchen chair around a completely glass table. It didn’t sound as if anyone else were in the house; you could definitely hear a pin drop easily.

Soon, he came inside with the last red rose lying still in his velvet-soft hands. The stem of it had to be at least two feet long, and the petals were gigantic. He looked more like some kind of movie star rather than some average guy when he held the delicate rose in his perfect hands. I suddenly let out an exuberated, high-pitched squeal. I ripped it out of his hands, which felt cold from digging it out of the outside ground. I stared at the marvelous flower with its gigantic, picky, abrasive thorns yet absolutely breath-taking, gigantic petals. “Wow, thanks,” I said quietly as I stared at my gift. I almost forgot to breathe. I suddenly felt a huge smile arise from my flesh-pink, chapped lips.

“You’re welcome,” he said politely in such a gentleman’s voice. I just continued to smile, this time in his denim-blue eyes. He let out a small chuckle.

After about five minutes, he retrieved from his pocket a midnight-black guitar pick with a silver wolf head engraved in it. He slipped it in my pocket and then said, “I have a gigantic collection of guitar picks in my room. Wanna see them?” I noticed a twinkle in his eyes as he pronounced each syllable.

“Sure.” I smiled greatly while holding the gorgeous yet abrasive rose inside my sweating, trembling hands.

He showed me exactly where the shimmery, wooden stairs to the basement were, and they were rather steep and hard on my feet. He went back into the kitchen to fetch us some soft drinks but returned to my side before I even reached the top of the staircase. At the bottom was a black, stringy carpet on the mustard-yellow hardwood of the basement’s floor. On the right wall of the basement was a fireplace that appeared to be ready for use. Jackson’s bed was on the left side facing the fireplace. It sure would get rather cozy from there. In the right corner next to the fireplace was a huge, plasma TV with its remote hanging from the wall. The top part of the wall was made of fake sheet-rock that glittered a bit from the dim, yellow light inside of the room, and the bottom part was made of mahogany paneling.

I sat on the bed as Jackson fired up the fire. The scent of the fire reminded me of all the years I went camping with my old family before they were killed in the fire. The fire in this room, of course, also reminded me of the night I had to jump out of my window to avoid getting singed by the fire. That was the first time I ever met Gerard, who rushed me to the hospital in his car. I still loved the fire, however even though it reminded me of that one tragic night. My parents weren’t all that great, anyway; my father even abused me several hundred times.

There was a time, however, when he was nice. Back in elementary school, he’d actually give me lunch for school and a snack of sweets after school. After sixth grade, however, he didn’t even care if I starved. He finally got himself a job but wouldn’t ever tell me where or what he did. All I knew was he was gone until about 11 P.M. After he’d get home, he was extremely agitated and aggravated. He’d either take it out on my mother or on me. Sometimes, I wouldn’t even get sleep at night, because he’d be screaming at my mother like some monster the entire night. That caused my grades to take a nose-dive, which caused my father to become even more furious with me…

The fire in Jackson’s room had become magnificent and beautiful. The smell of it had really relaxed me to where I sort of felt like sleeping. Five minutes after the cozy fire was up and kicking, Jackson searched under the bed for something. I had no idea what he could possibly be searching for, because I had forgotten all about his collection of guitar picks. Two minutes after searching, he brought out a small, leather suitcase with a peace sign engraved on the front of it. He set it on the bed and unhooked the two metal latched hooked at the front of it. He then turned it in my direction to let me see his gigantic collection of picks.

He had to have at least a thousand different picks. The large array of colors made a gigantic guitar pick rainbow. It was absolutely amazing that someone could possibly have this many! “Wow, that’s quite an impressive guitar pick collection you have!” I told him.

“I know,” he replied, “You could take a few if you want.” He then smiled gently at me as soon as he finished that sentence. I stared at his warming smile for ten seconds before selecting my three favorites from his collection. I chose a black one with a red rose blossom on it, a tie-dye one with a maroon peace sign, and another black one that had electric-blue rhinestones around its edges. These were surely unique picks, and I would definitely love using them! I slid them in my pocket and looked back at him.

That’s when I noticed an old, dirty white computer that had already been turned on in the left corner of the room. The bottom bar thing was black with red lettering, and the background was a picture of a black and red wolf howling to a full moon. I walked over to it and asked Jackson, “So how do I use one of these?”

He came over and said, “I’ll show you. Just sit in the chair.” He then pulled over his own chair and showed me basic functions like logging in and out, using the Internet, and how to play a pinball game he had. I found these things called “computers” quite interesting, probably because I’d never actually had a chance to use one.

After he was done showing me how to use it, he turned some music on it. I don’t know exactly how he did it, but he did! It was like magic. Hehe. The music was very slow and reminded me of what couples would dance to in the fifties. He then grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me to the center of his floor. “Have you ever danced before?” he asked.

“I tried once, but I nearly killed everyone.” That was during the Macarena in fifth grade.

“I could show you if you promise not to kill me,” he said to me, joking about the killing part.

“I’ll try.” I gave him a big, toothy grin.

He did most of the work. I stepped on his toes a few times, but otherwise dancing wasn’t nearly as difficult nor dangerous as I thought it would be. I especially enjoyed when he would twirl me around. The dance was rather smooth compared to any other dance I’d ever seemed interested in, and I loved it. Jackson’s dark, silvery sneakers would occasionally make a scraping sound against the hardwood floor. My shoes were still left upstairs by the door, because I thought he’d appreciate it if I’d left them there instead of dragging them onto his house’s floors. I had to admit that I was quite nervous, however, but we both survived.

Suddenly, during the dance, we were both locked into each other’s gaze, his blue eyes shimmering in the fire’s dull light. We didn’t move for about thirty seconds. It was like our eyes were glued staring into each other’s; we didn’t even blink. Next to the fire was quite comforting and cozy. He then shut his eyes, and his face began to inch a bit hesitantly toward mine. I also shut my eyes, so then I was surrounded by complete darkness.