Step Children

1.

The rain was unrelenting. One of the few days that Scott Wellington had to spend in the elements, and it had to be pissing rain.

He stood graveside, in the slop of the cemetery. Burial sites on top of the hills were pricey, and Grandpa would have hardly waited to roll over in his grave had Scott paid anything more for a good view.

The priest went on, some biblical passage that Scott couldn't care less about. Grandpa hadn't even been religious, but it was custom to go through the motions accordingly. Scott didn't feel like breaking from the norm in this regard.

A closed casket sat before him. Cherry finish, with a wreath of roses soaked from the precipitation. He struck a match and held it to a cigarette. The flame illuminated his thick red beard, freckles, and green eyes.

The priest never slowed his sermon, but he shot a look of austere disfavor at Scott.

There are only twelve of us here, Puritan, he thought. Nobody gives a shit if I smoke.

Scott scanned the funeral program for something to keep his mind entertained. At the top was a picture from when his grandpa was in the war.

It felt as if he were looking into a skewed mirror. If Scott were to shave his unkempt beard, they might have been able to pass as twins. This was a far cry from how his Grandpa had looked in the dream Scott had, only two nights prior.

It was striking, how happy Harold Wellington had been to see him. Scott had clung to every detail as hard as he could. The specifics of dreams are often lost in time, but some refuse to lose their significance.

This dream had been no different. Scott had been in their hunting lodge. Grandpa had been sitting by the fire, cleaning his disassembled gun.

He hadn't actually hunted in years, of course. The blindness had robbed him of that hobby. But dreams don't need to act in accordance with the truth; they have a way of defining their own reality.

Scott had known it was a dream, but had enjoyed it nonetheless. Though he and his grandpa had grown apart in recent years, the man had been like a father to him since he had lost his parents in the accident.

The railing on the staircase was loose. The screw holes were stripped from years of use. No matter.

Scott grasped the railing, and lifted both of his feet like he always had when he was young. Hovering was delightful. He let go of the railing and floated to the bottom step of the staircase before putting his feet down.

"How goes it, Big Red?" Harold grinned at him as he approached.

"Good, Grandpa, good." Scott said. He had felt as if he were five years old again. Grandpa had seemed so much bigger then. The twinkle in his eye had felt like home.

The town's fire department had rung its long, drawn out siren. It was meant to signal an imminent evacuation. Scott had found it irksome, unsettling.

Harold looked up from his gun, out the window next to the door. Illogically, his gun was reassembled. "Wait here. If you hear a pounding on that door, don't you keep dreaming. Wake up."

Scott had nodded, confused.

His grandfather had opened the door and slammed it behind him.

Moments later, Scott had heard blasts from a shotgun. Five in a row. Then three sporadic shots, then another three. One round from a small-caliber weapon was fired.

The fire department had stopped ringing their alarm. All that Scott could hear had been the crackling of the fire place beside him.

He had waited, anticipating his Grandpa's return.