Nebraska

The first time I went to his house, it was only a pit stop so Charlie could pick up his wallet. But in the short time I stayed, I met his father, who smoked big, fat cigars that filled the room with smoke and make Charlie's father choke on his spit. In between puffs, he told me that I was too sweet of a girl for his son. I disagreed, but I didn't want him to make any more words with his rotting lungs, so I just smiled and looked at the floor. Soon Charlie came back downstairs.

The second time I went to his house, Charlie stole to the bathroom as fast as he could, and left me lonely in his small palace of a home. Charlie's father was nowhere to be seen, but the house still smelled like smoke. I ran my fingers along the chipping drywall as I walked around and looked at all of the pictures on the walls. There weren't many. My favorite was a blurry one where Charlie had laughed and moved at the last second to look at his smiling father. All of the other smiles he wore in other photos seemed facades.

The third time I went to his house, we went upstairs together, and I saw for the first time who Charlie really was. He had guns like trophies mounted on the walls like animal heads, and my eyes got wide as I stared at them. Guns! Honest to god guns! He pointed to one of them when he saw my surprise and told me that that one was the skull of the high school champ, and that's why it was kept in the exact center. I smiled even though I didn't really understand.