As I pack up my last worn box, the same one I've used every time we've moved. I heaved the box over my shoulder and headed for our car. As I opened the trunk to put the box in, I notice some thing in the back corner. It glints in the sunlight, and I set my box on the rough concrete, and reach in to grab it. It's cool and smooth, and I feel it's shape before I see what it is and throw it back into the corner.
It was a small handgun. Now that I saw that, I don't believe the words of our conversation last week. We're going to be fine. Oh please, if MY father bought a gun, the man who doesn't let me see R rated movies, or play first person shooters, then I'm toast.
I lift my box and place it in the trunk before closing the latch and getting in my seat.
As we pull up to the small worn down house, I see a group of kids, all with their shirts off and pants sagging, staring straight at us. One of them points at my dad and cracks up. The tallest of them throws a rock, which hits the wood of our car. Rage bubbles up inside me as I wind down my window. "Fuck off!" I scream, and they all turn and walk away.
