I'll Be Home By Christmas

My name is Johnny, and I am the Jesus of Suburbia.

I am a criminal, or so they say, with the streets giving me my only sense of protection. Dear reader, let me make something very clear. I am not a killer.

October 31, 1991. The day I was born. I remember my mother always joking that I was born on that day for a reason. She teased that I was the spawn of Satan. I wonder what she would think of me now, with my black clothes and inked skin, with my friends. No, friends isn’t the word. I had no friends. They were more of what you would call a gang, I suppose. My mother died four years ago, just months after my father. She had overdosed, or something like that. Only five people went to her funeral.

And here I am now, 19 years old and sitting in a rutty apartment with a laptop as my only connection to the outside world. I was stuck in a rut, but deep inside I knew I didn’t care. Maybe this is where I wanted to be? Looking up shit on the internet and messaging a girl I haven’t seen in five years.

As if on cue, the little bubble notification popped up in the corner of my screen, announcing: “Whatsername is now online.”

Ashley.

Whatsername: Yo, Jesus, what’s up?! Still rocking the punk scene downtown? I thought you’d have moved by now!

Johnny: Ashley, I told you not to call me that. But yes, I am. The landlord’s kicking me out, so I’ll be moving on within a week. Anyways, what’s been going on with you?

Whatsername: Dad’s rocking the heroin now, so I ended up kicking him out two weeks ago. I’ve been working on that painting that Jimmy asked me about. Selfish bastard.

Johnny: Didn’t you two have a thing a while back? What happened?

Whatsername: Nothing happened, we just worked better as friends. Besides, I’ll be damned if he’s not gay or something.

Johnny: Why the fuck would you say something like that?

Whatsername: So what, you haven’t even met him? Anyways, if you need a place to stay, I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to give you a place to crash. I mean, who couldn’t, you get too pitiful when you need something.

Johnny: That’s not true!

Whatsername: Oh, right, and you think I got you that laptop out of the kindness of my heart? I swear, Johnny, if looks could kill, I’d have been stone-cold dead.

Johnny: Whatever. Just give me the address.

Whatsername: 2120 Sassafras Boulevard, room 179

Johnny: Thanks, message you back later.

I watched the screen as Whatsername began to type something, though she must’ve thought twice about it, because the small icon stopped blinking, and she went offline. Thinking nothing of it, I closed my laptop, shoving it among my other meager possessions, into my backpack and walking out the door. I didn’t know this Jimmy person, but I hoped he was as great as he seemed.

**

Two hours later I was sitting on the doorstep of a dingy motel. The doorman told me that Jimmy wouldn’t be in for another two hours, and having no other place to go, I took residence on the stairs of the place I may soon call home. I opened my laptop and clicked on the Skype icon. Signing in, I saw that Whatsername wasn’t on, and slamming the laptop with more than a little frustration, an irritated sigh escaped my lips. What if this Jimmy guy was some fraud? What if he tried to hurt me? ‘Dammit, Johnny, you have trust issues,’ I told myself, watching the world pass by in front of me. I could feel my heart quicken at the thought of having to go back to living on the streets. I had survived, but only barely. I had done things I wasn’t proud of, and they would haunt me for the rest of my life, however long that may be.

**

“Hey, man, what the fuck you doing on my doorstep?” A voice asked, something prodding my side.

It took me a moment to fully adjust to the midday sunlight, and as I got up, my muscles howled in pain. God, I was stupid for falling asleep on the steps. Grunting, I grabbed my bag, prepared to leave.

The man obviously didn’t accept my grunt as a proper response, because before I could say ‘fuck’, he had me against the wall, arm pressing against my throat. I tried to speak, to explain what I was actually doing here, but nothing would come out. “Listen here, you little shit,” The stranger started, “you’re going to walk off my doorstep, down that street, and never come back. Got it?”

“But-“ I strangled, clawing at his arms.

“Got.It?”

“Yes.”

The man let me go, and I dropped to my knees, sucking in so much air it hurt. Before he could touch me again, I stumbled down the stairs and onto the sidewalk, pushing my way through the crowd and as far away from that man as possible.

I thought about calling Amy, but I knew she’d be busy with work, so I decided to wait until later to tell her everything.

My feet managed to get their shit together, and I was able to function like a normal human being after walking several blocks from the motel. The more I thought about it, the more I considered going to the police, but as soon as I realized that they would probably put me in a cell too, I ditched the idea and began contemplating going back to the motel and trying to explain everything. It sounded like a good idea, even though the guy practically threatened to bash my brains in if I ever got within twenty feet of him.

‘Aw, poor little guy, you’re scared of him!’ Some part of me said in the same mocking tone my father would’ve used.

“No, I’m not!” I retorted, pacing back and forth down an abandoned side-street.

‘Then why won’t you go back?’ The voice asked, feeling more and more like an itch that I couldn’t scratch.

With a huff of determination, I turned and started back towards the motel. “I’m going right now.”

Within twenty minutes I was back at the same faded green door I was sitting by nearly an hour and a half before, every part of me knowing this wasn’t going to end well. I didn’t care, I just wanted to prove to myself that I wasn’t scared. Knocking two times on the door, I stepped back, shifting nervously.

Well, here goes nothing.