Tuesday Night Tweakin

One: It's Like Hearing a Song for the First Time

[A/N} I'm just testing the waters. Whether I continue this or not is up to whether or not people like it, so please leave constructive criticism.

Also please be nice to me about the lyrics, I'm not musically inclined. I do have lyrics for Boyfriend, but I wanted to keep him unintelligible.

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        There's a knock at my door. I quickly fold a corner of my GunGirl magazine, shoving it under my pillow, and sitting up to see over the wood cutout of a tank next to my bed. "Yes?"

"Honey, it's your dad," someone speaks from the other side.

"Which one?"

"Steve." I crawl to the foot of my bed and stumble out as the blanket falls to the ground and catches my foot. Once I open the door, Dad holds a shotgun and a power drill in his hands, and I move aside to let him in. "How was your day?"

"Uh... Good, I guess," I respond as I pick up my blanket and sit on my bed. He looks around at my walls and finds a new spot that isn't already covered with gun racks. "What, uh... What model is that?"

"Oh, just your run-of-the-mill Mossberg, nothing special." He sets down the shotgun and goes back into the hall, moving a wall mount in. "It's a nice day outside."

"So I heard."

"You've really got to get out there," he says, concerned with his fists on his hips. "You can't stay cooped up in your room forever."

"I can."

"What makes you think you can?"

"The survival tactics you taught me," I cheekily respond. He perks his lips out because he knows he's right. "Besides, I was out working on the tank earlier, that's why I'm wearing clothes. So I'm not always in my room."

"But you are always in the house." He turns to the doorway as John walks by. "Captain, come in here!" John arrives and leans in the wooden frame, arms crossed. "Help me out here."

"Kid," John starts, "I know you've gotten used to staying indoors all the time and we're in unfamiliar territory, but you can't stay in here. You're allowed to go out and meet people. So... Go do just that." I'm not down for it. I'm waiting for them to leave. I have private matters to attend to. The both of them sigh. "I need your help downstairs anyway in the kitchen." John and I walk downstairs, and he pulls the garbage bag out of the trashcan, tying it up to hand to me. "I'm gonna clean out the fridge. Take that out for me, will ya?"

I grab the black bag and go to the front door, slipping on my tennis shoes and going outside. Looking around the culdesac, the coast is clear of people I would have to talk to. The new neighborhood is quiet and stable, with no constant gunshots or mortar bomb explosions happening that shake the ground and constantly keep me up. Sleeping was weird when we spent the first night. Maybe just a dog barking off in the distance, but sheer silence. It makes me feel uneasy.

The trashcan is on the other side of the driveway. I step across the concrete pavement and use my thumb to lift the lid, dropping the bag in and letting the lid fall to close. I get a whiff of the stench a garbage bin carries after being in use for so long, and I grimace as I exhale greatly to expel it from my system. Getting back to the front door, John and Dad stand in the way. They shift their bodies from side to side when I attempt to move around them.

John shoves a Capri Sun into my hand. "Please, go touch some grass."

"Where's the straw?" I ask as I look down at the pouch.