Silent storms

Chapter One

He goes by Brock.

Shirtless, he walks home from school. His white T hangs out the back of his right jean pocket. A short fuse that equals out to how small he really is, although: he carries himself big with a stocky posture. Dark hair barely reaching his ears. Always looking down, his shoulders stay adjacent to his head. Presenting that ungrateful look tells you his destination is not where he wants to arrive. Hauling his left hand as a fist, he swings his right one freely. Moving faster than the average speed walk. Time is his enemy. Plowing straight through other students that take almost the same route home. There is no time for an, excuse me, watch out, or even, move!

Arriving at the apartments, Brock rushes through the hallway, opening the second to the last door on the left. Dale sits, occupying the couch, sipping on a Coors Light, watching T.V. "You're late." He says without a movement, too glued to the screen.

Kicking off his shoes Brock heads towards the hall to his room, Ignoring Dale.

"You hear me boy?" Dale cocked aggressively at him. "I said you're late!" Now, chugging his beer.

"You know I can't make It when school doesn't end until three." A tired voice floated civilly among the living room.

"Run, I don't care! Living under my roof you obey my rules. Understand? Get here by 3:10 or your ass is locked out." Ending off with a hoar chuckle Dale sinks back into his seat. Kicking up his feet on the coffee table, he raises the can.

"It's hard though since-"

"It's hard though. . ." Dale mocks a cry baby voice.

Starring viciously at the back of his head, anger pours through Brock. Flipping the bird, he goes to his room.

Tossing the white T in his closet, he rest on his bed, dazed deep into the ceiling. Dales actions nor words effect him. It's his presence, vibes, even the visual of his scruffy face, drained eyes, and that empty heart that turns wine into water. Sloth moments pass. Riding the wicked roller coaster as usual, Brock feels and thinks in confinement. Three months is far over limit. Having the risky wings to fly, this dull white ceiling captivates him as these four muggy green walls embed him. Caged.

Calming those wings, he heads to the bathroom. "Where's mom?" Brock calls before entering.

"Went to get dinner!"

The door shuts.

Hearing it open, Dale shouts. "While you're up get another beer!"

Exiting the hallway, off to the right Brock steps on the tile floor; into the fridge he goes. Both bottom crisper drawers filled with Coors Light. He grabs a cold one.

"Here." Handing it to him. Snatching up the empty can that Dale shakes, Brock disposes it. Under the sink is where the trash is located. Closing the cupboard door Brocks turns, witnessing his mother entering with a hand full of groceries.

"Mom!" Cheerfully calling, he goes and helps.

"Hey sweetie. How was school?"

"Better than this." Brock mumbles as he takes a few bags.

"I was going to get you a steak but Dale didn't have enough money."

"He's lucky I feed his ass anyway." Commenting. Brock gives his mom that, told you, type of look. Where his eyebrows shift down, eyes narrow, while pulling off a fake smile.

"Dale." Kelly says.

"Well. . . he isn't even my kid. I'm the only one-"

"Dale!"