M.I.A.

Chapter 1

Chapter One:

Corey

Cutter comes home at half past seven—which is later than usual. As his pick-up rumbles over the overgrown, pot-holed driveway, I make my way down the stairs and wait for him in the kitchen. He comes in whistling to himself and looking the same as always—beat-up work boots, dusty jeans, worn leather jacket, lanky hair tucked under a sweat-stained 49ers hat.

As he turns to put a six-pack of beer on the counter, I peak into the brown grocery bag he left on the chrome-rimmed kitchen table. "What did you bring me? Any snacks?"

Investigation proves that there is nothing for me in the bag.

With a pout I step back, letting him drag the bag off of the table and onto the counter. He begins stacking cans of refried beans and tuna in the mostly empty cabinet—clack, clack, clack.

Sulking, I lean against the counter and stare at the cracked floor tiles. "You never bring me anything," I mutter. "You don't think of me when you're out, do you?"

He doesn't answer. I don't expect him to. Cutter never answers. And I'm not sure he ever thinks of me...even when he's home.

Wanting to get his attention, I saunter over to the six-pack and give it a little push. A glance over the shoulder proves I've got it. "Oh," I say, annoyed that a six-pack is more important to him than I am, "you're listening now, aren't you?" With all my might, I shove the bottles off of the counter and onto the floor, shattering all but two which roll across the floor and clank into the stove.

"Jesus fuck!" Cutter screams, practically jumping onto the counter—as if I were a mouse and getting higher than me would do anything.

Delilah starts up barking.

A moment later, Cutter comes to his senses and, scowling, lowers his feet and stomps over to the basement door. He yanks it open and bellows at the hound below. "Shut the hell up!"

Delilah yelps like she's been kicked in the ribs, abruptly going silent.

Cutter turns back to the kitchen, closing the door with his weight. "Pain in the ass mutt." His eyes trail across the floor, taking in the frothing puddle of beer, then back to where I'm standing.

I try to look innocent, although I can't help my Cheshire Cat grin. "Oh come on, Cutter, you and I both know that drinking doesn't do anything to improve your mood."

Still leaning against the basement door, he rubs at his eyes. "God damned nuts."

"Nuts?" I reply. "Good idea, I'd love to know what you did with mine."

Cutter turns his back on me and gropes for one of the undamaged beer bottles. He shakes the condensation off of it and snaps it open on the edge of the counter. "Just gotta get back into yourself," he's saying.

"I doubt I'd like what I found."

He turns and walks away from me. "...gotta feel alive again."

There's no hope of that. But I don't think he's talking to me. Frowning to myself, I follow him. "And just what does that mean?"

He stops inside the dimly-lit hall, his bloodshot brown eyes caressing a closet door. Uncertain, I stare with him as he continues mumbling to himself. "...gotta make your mark on the world. Gotta show them who's in charge." He takes a swig, his eyes never leaving the paint-cracked door.