ḾṎᕍ⁅ᖇṈ ℄Ṏv⁅ | The Lost Boys

ᏨᏲᾀᑬt⁅ᖇ tᏔṎ

Unpacking the car was pretty easy. The house, which seemed smaller due to the piles of junk packed into every corner, was fairly large—two bathrooms, one upstairs and one downstairs, as well as four bedrooms. One, which Grandpa obviously occupied (though from its sound, he didn't sleep there), only stored more of his disturbing taxidermy.

Mom got her own room, which left two others.

Michael tried to pull rank, claiming that he was the oldest; therefore, he should get his own room; but I pulled my 'Woman Card'—citing exactly why neither of them wanted to room with me.

So, Michael reluctantly had to share with Sammy.

I carried in my books by the armful, neatly balancing a few more on my head. (A cool party trick but not useful in many scenarios—present one excluded.)

It was sad to think that this was a mere fraction of my collection. When the divorce was final, I had pawned off a good deal of my cloth bound books for extra cash to help Mom out. She didn't ask me to do this, but I wanted to. It only seemed fair to sacrifice something of mine as she has she has sacrificed so much of her life.

I'm carrying in one of my cardboard boxes from the car when Sammy and Michael tear past me. Sam narrowly avoids slamming into me, but Michael isn't so careful. His shoulder smashes against mine, and I nearly drop the heavy box.

"Watch it, dweebs!" I shout.

"Mom! Help me, help!" cries Sam, half-terrified, half-amused. "He's gonna kill me!"

Mom side steps, avoiding disaster. "Hey, no running in the house, guys!"

I plop the cardboard box down, holding it in place with my hip. They could be so childish sometimes. It's hard to believe that Micahel was the oldest.

Preparing to rip them a new one, I stormed after the boys, only for the three of us to come to a screeching halt as Sam threw open a set of double doors. It led into a once-spacious room and was filled to the brim with dead animal heads, disturbing tools, and ... fresh animal carcasses.

"Talk about the Texas Chainsaw Massacre," Michael mutters.

"Rules!" The three of us whirl around, coming face-to-face with Granpa's stink-eye. "Got some rules around here."

He motions us to follow as he shuffled into the kitchen. He wrenches open the fridge door and points to a cardboard piece that reads OLD FART, covering the middle shelf.

"Second shelf is mine." He flips it open, showcasing the goods that lay inside. "I keep my root beers and double-thick Oreo cookies in here. Nobody touches the second shelf." Another pointed stink eye.

He takes his leave from the kitchen, the unspoken command to follow him clearly in his gesture. He takes us back into the living room, listening diligently when Michael speaks up.

"Hey, Grandpa—is it true that Santa Carla is the murder capital of the world?"

Grandpa trails off, "Ehhh ... There's some bad elements around here..."

Sam blinked. "Wait a second, lemme get this straight. Are you telling me that we moved to the murder capital of the world? Are you serious, Grandpa?"

He shuffled around, considering his words. "Now, let me put it this way; if all the corpses buried around here were to stand up all at once, we'd have one helluva population problem."

Mom, with two hats stacked on top of her head, stopped long enough to hear the tail end of the conversation. She rolled her eyes and said, "Great, dad."

"Now, when the mailman brings the TV Guide on Wednesdays, sometimes the corner of the address label will curl up ... You'll be tempted to peel it off.  Don't.  You'll end up rippin' the cover, and I don't like that."