Silent storms

Chapter Three

Taking no consideration into what Dale said, he walks normal. Once pass the church he turns around to look at the school building. Not seeing the first floor behind the pine trees; the second floor floats in the air. Thinking off all the teachers that occupy the rooms behind the windows, he shows a wicked grin. Hoping one is gazing out right now, he waves, by flipping the bird.

Knocking. . . you bet your ass the door is locked. No answer. Pounding a hammer fist, still nothing. Repulsive pounds echo in this hallway, vibrating through the bare white wooden walls. "Open the door!" He hears his mom yell.

Dale opens it. Then quickly shuts it in Brock's face.

He enters himself.

Laughing his way to the couch - "Told ya boy. You should listen." - Dale swoops his beer up from the coffee table, smiling as Brock kicks off his shoes.

"How was school sweetie?" Kelly ask.

"Okay. I got two in school suspensions."

"Why Brock?" His mom gives him a sad worried look.

"I took off my shirt on school property apparently."

"Are you a queer or something?" Dale laughs while moving toward the kitchen, where Kelly sits.

Balling a fist, Brocks inhales one deep breathe through his nose. "I'm going to my room." He exhales, ignoring Dale.

"Broc-" His mom calls. He hangs up by closing his door.

"Why is your son such a loser?" Dale ask with a slight chuckle.

"He's not!" Kelly catches a nasty attitude quick.

"Yes. Yes he is. All he does is stay in his room. He has no friends. When I was his age I was getting shit faced every-"

"You know Dale, I don't want to hear it." Kelly cuts him quick.

"Well its true." Dale fishes for another can in the fridge.

"Dale!" Kelly's not the one to argue or discuss. "Okay. He might not have friends. But he isn't a loser. Okay? Just leave him be."

"How is that not a loser?"

"I don't know!" Throwing a quick snappy tone. "He's just not a loser, okay?" Brocks door opens. Hearing it in through his small ears, Dale drinks to show agreement.

"Mom, what's for supper?" Brock ask as he comes out to get something to drink. Searching through the cupboards for a glass.

"Actually. . ."

"We're going out to eat." Dale comments with a solid tone while finding the couch.

"You can cook something for yourself tonight sweetie." Brock feels as a peasant, once again. Getting water he takes the glass to his room. He responds by slamming the door.

"Don't slam doors in my house!" He hears Dales yell.

Time is his enemy, wishing the sun would fall fast. It doesn't work like that though. Many things we can get, change, and exchange but time is not one of them. The night comes whenever it wants and leaves as it pleases. Not getting caught is what you have to be smart about. Dazed in that statement Brock is more curious than ever. We're not friends. These opposing words bounce all around Brocks thoughts, switching emotion; wondering if its a set up. Always following his gut, it plays a soft humming sound. Excited! Although being pass curfew hours cautions Brock. Getting away from this place is a risk he is willing to take. Who knew living in hell could be so cold?

"Brock!" Hearing his mom, he goes out into the living room. "We're leaving. Cook anything you want." Seeing her straight brunette hair fall behind her shoulders matching her blue dress and ear rings, makes him sad seeing her go out with an ungrateful bastard.

"Have a beer too." Dale comments.

"Don't say that." Kelly looks at Dale. They stand by the door, dressed and ready. "No Brock, no beer! But cook anything." Her smile gives Brock encouragement.

"Okay." The door shuts.

Scavenging through the kitchen, Brock pulls out a pre-made hamburger from the freezer and ends up cooking it on the George Foreman Grill. Layering the seasonings to perfection, the smell sticks in his noise, tasting exactly what Brock is use to - silence and isolation.

Brock is in his room when they get home. Rushing out to see them, only for the time though.

"You should be in bed!" Dale says to Brock with eyes that can't keep focus.

"I'm thirsty." Brock grabs a cup and fills it from the faucet while staring at the clock - 9:43 p.m.

"Hi sweetie." Kelly says as Brock starts chugging. Proving his thirst. "How are you?"

"Tired." Brock says as he goes back to his room.

Cautious measures start boiling down since he doesn't own his own clock. Sneaking out is something Brock has never done - "It's a money issue sweetie, we don't have it ourselves." - this is all the encouragement he needs. "We're not friends." This plays over all other thoughts. Brock tries pushing it away, thinking "not getting caught is what you have to be smart about" but this he doesn't understand, leaving him in confusion.

Brock sneaks back into the kitchen one last time when he hears their bedroom shut. It is close to being late: 12:03 p.m. Snagging his shoes, more than ready.

Opening his bedroom window he jumps out.