The Escape
two of 3
Patrick found himself on a couch inside Grampa Wentz’s living room, alone. Well he wasn’t alone; Pete was asleep, lying with his feet sprawled across Patrick’s lap. He tried to ignore Pete and attempted to read; he couldn’t though. This house made him feel uncomfortable.
There was a musty smell from the aging carpet.
There were unloaded guns hanging all over the walls. Pete’s parents reassured Patrick that there were no bullets anywhere in the house because the doctor forced them to clean Grampa Wentz out. But still.
Also the men in black in white photos all over the walls seemed to stare coldly at him.
Hitler’s dark eyes gazed at him.
Grampa Wentz is a sick, sick man.
“Did you grab your epileptic medicine?” Patrick overheard Pete’s mum say to his dad.
“I’m not a child. Of course I have it.” He sounded annoyed. He probably didn’t like Grampa Wentz very much either.
Pete’s mom came in, looked at her baby boy, smiled, and then looked at Patrick. She smiled again. Then softly spoke, “He’s my little angel. Anyways, there’s a note on the fridge letting you know what to do. It shouldn’t be too hard, he’s asleep and he’s a nice old guy, you know. See you in a few hours”
“Alright. Thank you Mrs. Wentz.” Patrick replied mannerly. He waved to her husband on their way out. Putting his book down, he slowly crept off the couch and was careful not to wake Pete.
“Pete.” He whispered, and shook Pete’s shoulders lightly. His lip twitched a little bit and he unconsciously smacked Patrick’s hands away. Patrick stood erect for a moment then went back over.
“Pete.” He said louder. Nothing. “Pete. Pete. PETE. PETE, WAKE THE FUCK UP.” Even after screaming, Pete remained asleep. Patrick was tired of waiting.
He grabbed one of the pictures of Hitler and one of Grampa Wentz’s lighters and walked over to Pete. A crooked smile formed on Patrick’s face as soon as he lit the lighter close to Pete’s foot. He placed the picture of Hitler close to his face.
The heat sensation in his feet, Pete’s eyes snapped open just to find Hitler a mere 3 inches from his face. He screamed, and rolled off the couch; face first onto that old dirty carpet. He flipped over slowly and looked at Patrick.
“You just pulled a Gabe. I’m proud of you.” He said, impressed. “You bastard.” He smiled. A smile so young and adorable that it almost made Patrick melt.
“You wouldn’t wake up.” He snickered and helped Pete up. “You poor thing.” Suddenly, they couldn’t look at each other, but they were both smiling, trying to hide it, until Patrick slowly grabbed Pete’s hands and looked from under his thin eyelashes up into Pete’s heavily masked big brown eyes. Just as they came closer, maybe even too close, they heard something in the distance. A rebel yell.
“Holy shit.” Patrick said flatly and ripped his hands from Pete’s. “You promised me that he wouldn’t bother me.”
“I never said he wouldn’t bother you; all I said was that he thinks you’re a Jew, and he thinks he’s a Nazi.”
Patrick’s eyebrows displayed his anger and he said quickly and high-pitched, “Where did he get the idea that I WAS JEWISH?”
Pete scratched the back of his neck, looked away, then back at Patrick. “He never liked you, and when he was diagnosed with dementia, every component of his life kind of mixed.” He bit his lower lip. Then he explained to Patrick the law of syllogism.
If p~q.
And q~r.
Then p~r.
Patrick looked stunned, and worried. He kept switching views between Pete and Grampa Wentz’s bedroom door, knowing that he was likely to come out of it at any moment.
After what Pete said registered with Patrick, he stopped looking at the door, shot Pete a look and said, “What the fuck?”
Pete looked as if he expected what Patrick said, and sophisticatedly replied, “If p, Grampa doesn’t like you, equals q, that his dementia is mixing his life and WWII, and if q equals r, He thinks everyone he hates is a Jew.” He paused, looked at Patrick, and then screamed, “FUCK.”
Patrick turned around quickly to the door again thinking that Pete’s sudden outburst meant he saw something. Patrick looked all around the room and then screamed at Pete, “WHAT?”
“Oh nothing, I just felt too proper.” He smugly smiled at Patrick. “I knew it would scare you.”
“I hate you again.”
“How can you hate me when you were so close to almost--” Pete was interrupted by a loud slam of a door against a wall and a scream. Grampa Wentz came out with his nightgown on, and a German helmet. Dead center of it was a bright red Swastika Sticker.
There was a musty smell from the aging carpet.
There were unloaded guns hanging all over the walls. Pete’s parents reassured Patrick that there were no bullets anywhere in the house because the doctor forced them to clean Grampa Wentz out. But still.
Also the men in black in white photos all over the walls seemed to stare coldly at him.
Hitler’s dark eyes gazed at him.
Grampa Wentz is a sick, sick man.
“Did you grab your epileptic medicine?” Patrick overheard Pete’s mum say to his dad.
“I’m not a child. Of course I have it.” He sounded annoyed. He probably didn’t like Grampa Wentz very much either.
Pete’s mom came in, looked at her baby boy, smiled, and then looked at Patrick. She smiled again. Then softly spoke, “He’s my little angel. Anyways, there’s a note on the fridge letting you know what to do. It shouldn’t be too hard, he’s asleep and he’s a nice old guy, you know. See you in a few hours”
“Alright. Thank you Mrs. Wentz.” Patrick replied mannerly. He waved to her husband on their way out. Putting his book down, he slowly crept off the couch and was careful not to wake Pete.
“Pete.” He whispered, and shook Pete’s shoulders lightly. His lip twitched a little bit and he unconsciously smacked Patrick’s hands away. Patrick stood erect for a moment then went back over.
“Pete.” He said louder. Nothing. “Pete. Pete. PETE. PETE, WAKE THE FUCK UP.” Even after screaming, Pete remained asleep. Patrick was tired of waiting.
He grabbed one of the pictures of Hitler and one of Grampa Wentz’s lighters and walked over to Pete. A crooked smile formed on Patrick’s face as soon as he lit the lighter close to Pete’s foot. He placed the picture of Hitler close to his face.
The heat sensation in his feet, Pete’s eyes snapped open just to find Hitler a mere 3 inches from his face. He screamed, and rolled off the couch; face first onto that old dirty carpet. He flipped over slowly and looked at Patrick.
“You just pulled a Gabe. I’m proud of you.” He said, impressed. “You bastard.” He smiled. A smile so young and adorable that it almost made Patrick melt.
“You wouldn’t wake up.” He snickered and helped Pete up. “You poor thing.” Suddenly, they couldn’t look at each other, but they were both smiling, trying to hide it, until Patrick slowly grabbed Pete’s hands and looked from under his thin eyelashes up into Pete’s heavily masked big brown eyes. Just as they came closer, maybe even too close, they heard something in the distance. A rebel yell.
“Holy shit.” Patrick said flatly and ripped his hands from Pete’s. “You promised me that he wouldn’t bother me.”
“I never said he wouldn’t bother you; all I said was that he thinks you’re a Jew, and he thinks he’s a Nazi.”
Patrick’s eyebrows displayed his anger and he said quickly and high-pitched, “Where did he get the idea that I WAS JEWISH?”
Pete scratched the back of his neck, looked away, then back at Patrick. “He never liked you, and when he was diagnosed with dementia, every component of his life kind of mixed.” He bit his lower lip. Then he explained to Patrick the law of syllogism.
If p~q.
And q~r.
Then p~r.
Patrick looked stunned, and worried. He kept switching views between Pete and Grampa Wentz’s bedroom door, knowing that he was likely to come out of it at any moment.
After what Pete said registered with Patrick, he stopped looking at the door, shot Pete a look and said, “What the fuck?”
Pete looked as if he expected what Patrick said, and sophisticatedly replied, “If p, Grampa doesn’t like you, equals q, that his dementia is mixing his life and WWII, and if q equals r, He thinks everyone he hates is a Jew.” He paused, looked at Patrick, and then screamed, “FUCK.”
Patrick turned around quickly to the door again thinking that Pete’s sudden outburst meant he saw something. Patrick looked all around the room and then screamed at Pete, “WHAT?”
“Oh nothing, I just felt too proper.” He smugly smiled at Patrick. “I knew it would scare you.”
“I hate you again.”
“How can you hate me when you were so close to almost--” Pete was interrupted by a loud slam of a door against a wall and a scream. Grampa Wentz came out with his nightgown on, and a German helmet. Dead center of it was a bright red Swastika Sticker.