Far From Home

One

Ironic, huh?

The cool night air touched my skin.

My life began with a night of drunken mistakes, and my life would end with them. As I lay in a puddle of my own blood on Oleson Road (Next to a shitty Dairy Queen, only 100 feet from some delicious Mike and Ikes), I thought of how this all began. This tale of his daughter, her boyfriend, and forgotten debts.

One Month Before...

-Jake's POV-

I glared at the mirror. I loathed that fucking thing. It was 7 am. I've been staring at this fucking thing for an hour and a half. I had another nightmare. They were usually just me curled up in a sea of inky black. Other times it was me at my own funeral. And I was the only one there. Some dreams were of Harry and Jamie, where it was mostly innocent. Except the ones where it was Jamie and Harry rutting, with me being forced to watch from the inside of a transparent box.

The worst one?

It happened tonight. It was of me and Jamie. We were just hanging out, laughing, cuddling. Those were the worst, because I know something like that would never happen. I touched my cheek, where there was a scar in the side of my face. Due to my drunkness, the bullet missed my brain and exited my left cheek, fucking up that entire side of my mouth. The doctor said I was lucky to be alive.

The door to my room creaked open. "Jake, sweetie?"

My mom. "Yes?" I asked.

"Are you okay?"

"Yup."

I walked out of my bathroom and looked at my mother. Her eyes were ringed red, from either exhaustion or crying. Maybe both, now that I think about it. "Okay," she answered. "You want some breakfast?"

"Yes please."

My mom smiled and wiped at her eyes. I sat down in my chair after she left. My room was pretty sparse. One desk, one bathroom, one big ass closet, one computer chair, one bed, one TV plus Play Station Two. Pretty kick ass, huh? I looked down at my clothes. Or, lack thereof. All I was wearing was gym shorts.

I walked out of my fortress of solitude and sat next to my dog, Oaf, on the couch. He was a fluffy Lhasa Apso, with really short hair. Plus, he was completely useless. He 9 years old... I think? Me and him also have conversations.

"How you doing Oaf?"

He layed his head on my thigh. We need a better couch.

"Why?"

It's hard to be lazy on this one.

I patted his head, and he sneezed and moved away. "Oaf!"

"What was that dear?" came my mom's distracted voice.

"Nothing, ma!" I answered. "Traitor," I whispered to Oaf. My dad walked out from the hall way and into the kitchen. I saw him kiss mom on the cheek and get his morning coffee. "Breakfast is ready!" my mom called.

Oaf got up, groaning, and padded to the kitchen. I followed him. As my mom gave me a paper plate with a breakfast burrito (eggs, jalapenos, and mayo) Oaf looked up at me, sitting down. Gonna share? he asked.

I shook my head. Hell no.

Oaf seemed to shrug, then went off to beg from Dad, who was playing Farmville on the computer. A couple hours later, Dad told me he was going to work. Mom was already gone. I nodded. Dad stayed, staring at me for a few more seconds. The disappointment in his gaze was tangible. "There's hot dogs in the fridge."