Jason sat on his bed writing in his book, a five-by-five ruled graph composition tablet, with his 0.7 mm lead Bic Atlantis mechanical pencil. He could smell the meatloaf his aunt was cooking downstairs. She sang some crazy disco shit while she worked, which made him roll his eyes. Her meatloaf was awesome. Her singing voice? Not so much.
She was his mother’s older sister, a widow, and she took him in when his parents died. She was nice enough and a good cook and all, but she didn’t understand him. Not like his mother had. He was eighteen, old enough to be on his own, but Aunt Shirley made it very clear that he was to stay with her until graduation at least. With nowhere else to go, he didn’t argue with her. As long as she made meatloaf once a week, he thought he might stay for the rest of his life. If he kept having days like the ones he’d been having lately, that might not be all that long anyway.
His book was more a journal than just a notebook, but journals were for girls, he thought. He flipped through the pages of his writings and drawings, wishing he had something to say. He wrote a lot, but said little, usually making lists instead. The last one in the book was from his eighth period study hall—20 Famous Serial Killers.
He put his book back in his backpack and looked at the clock. He had about forty-five minutes before dinner would be ready. Just enough time to rub one out. He stood up and locked his bedroom door before going to his window. The neighborhood was quiet, not like Mulberry Street, where he had friends, and families lived in most of the houses, not senior citizens like this one. He sighed, remembering Timmy, his neighbor and best friend, and Simone, the girl across the street. She was a tomboy, and was every bit as tough as Jason and Timmy thought they were. And Kevin. He was a pain in the ass and a bit of a bully, but in those days, they were all friends. Jason pulled the shade and returned to his bed. (more…)