FirstLineFiction beta

from Contest #6

Almost everyone thought the man and the boy were father and son. They both had brown, bulgy eyes hanging over deep purple pouches with one set covered with a reddish rag of hair draped over. They lived together and the man homeschooled the boy. They went to church together. They were twins, twenty-two years apart. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind these two were related.
George and Alexander lived on the corner of Richwoods Dr. and Kirkwood Blvd in a tiny, one bedroom apartment. The living room and kitchen were both part of one room of about twenty square feet. They had a forty-inch plasma television with all the newest video games. For sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, sixteen year old Alex sat, infatuated with various cartoons, sports and daytime and late night talk shows.
George’s room was adjacent to the kitchen area and had the only access to the bathroom. Their bathroom was wide enough for only one person to stand at a time, but one was allowed to have a naturally lighted shower; it came equipped with a window facing the wooded backyard. Without a room to call his own, Alex slept on the floor in the family room most nights, except for those nights when George allowed Alex to sleep in his bed. When he slept on the couch, he had a pillow and two Spiderman blankets for warmth and free access to the fridge. For the average teen, midnight ice cream supplemented with video games on a school night was the life. He never wanted to leave.
But he knew he had to at some point. He knew they were after him and eventually he’d be found. Those who thought this was wrong would take his freedom away; those who thought George was a bad man. Alex didn’t think George was a bad man at all, but he knew they did, and they wouldn’t mind George dead.
It was two in the afternoon when Alex woke up. George had long ago left for his shift at Pizza Hut. The musty stench of alcohol crept through the apartment and hammered Alex’s nostrils, sending his stomach on a bungee jump. He rolled on his side and puked in the trash can he had strategically placed on the side of the couch the night before in case something like this were to happen again. He stood up, wobbled for a second, maintained his balance, walked over to the kitchen and grabbed a box of cherry Pop Tarts from the pantry and some Coke from the fridge.
Alex walked back over to his couch and turned on the TV. He propped his pillow on the arm of the couch and lounged as he flipped through channels. He sped through the news stations--more Acute-Radiation Syndrome somewhere in Europe, who cares?  He cruised past the weather--it’s fuckin’ cold in Stockholm, what’s new? But he finally rested on a baseball game, Boston against the White Sox.
Before he moved in with George, Alex had been a pitcher on his little league team. But after four years, George had taught him how to be a bona fide catcher. He played summer ball with his friends, but during the school year he didn’t have an outlet. It wouldn’t be another three weeks before baseball season started and he’d be able to play again. Until then, he had his couch and television, and that’s all he wanted anyway.
Around 5:30, George returned home, two pizzas in hand.
“What’d you get tonight?” Alex asked without looking away from the game. It was the bottom of the ninth.
“One sausage and one black olive,” George responded breathily. His face was unusually reddened and his eyes sunken in. “I know black olive is your favorite.”
“Nice one, Pop,” Alex said, standing up and walking over towards the boxes. The game had ended.
“You shouldn’t be calling me that, you know that,” George responded harshly.
“But you’re my dad. Why wouldn’t I call my own father my Pop?”
“When they get here and hear you talking this sort of talk, they’re going to take you away and blame this all on me. You know that? I know the trail is heating up. It’s been cold for years, but they’re going to find us, Alex. It’s just a matter of time.”
“No it’s not!” Alex yelled in protest. “I don’t want to leave. Jeff and Maria were awful to me. They’ll see when I talk to them! They’ll see.” His eyes were welling up as he looked to George for some sort of support. He received none; George turned away.
“Alex. I love you, but this can’t go on forever. I’m not your dad. You have a real father. And that’s not me.”
Both boys were in tears. Neither one of them could hold onto their food, much less put it in their mouths. Alex walked behind George and hugged him. George turned around, faced him and hugged him back.
“I never want to leave here,” Alex whispered.
“I don’t want you to,” George squeaked out.
They ate their pizza in silence, with the exception of the occasional sniffle and cough. The TV remained off. George listened for the sound of sirens and jumped at every car horn he heard. Alex sat on the opposite side of the room, finished off his first beer and the last piece of the black olive pizza, grabbed another beer out of the fridge, walked into George’s room and lied on his bed, face buried deep in the pillow. George sighed and walked in behind him.

Time moved on; the summer came and passed and the coldness of November had set in. All too familiarly Alex awoke on the couch in the middle of the day on an average Wednesday. No George. Odor punch. Puke. Food. TV. Sports.
It was 5:30 and George hadn’t come home yet. Alex wasn’t too concerned; there were plenty of days when George was late coming home. But when the clock struck seven, he started worrying. Usually George would call if he decided to take on a double shift. At 7:30, George busted through the door. His eyes bulged wide and his hair was astray. He panted as if he had just run a mile.
“We have to leave!” he yelled as he ran through the apartment as he searched for something. He flipped couch cushions and lifted the mattress on his bed, but found nothing.
“What?” Alex said standing up, his face scrunched as the only visible eyebrow rose.
“They know. They’re onto us.”
“Who is?”
“I don’t know, but I saw the police scouting out Pizza Hut today and someone was trailing me home.”
“Are they here?” Alex asked. His hands shook as he stood watching.
“No, but they could be at any second. I don’t want to take any chances. I can’t go to jail.”
“You wo-,” Alex began, but he was cut off.
“Yes I will!” George screamed as he found the $200 hidden in the back of his sock drawer in his bedroom. “You don’t get it, do you kid? Just because you want to be here, doesn’t mean that I can have you here. They don’t think that’s right!”
“I’m not leaving,” Alex said as he sat back down, arms crossed and turned on the TV.
“Yes you are!”
At that moment, there was a knock on the door and the both of them stopped moving. George tiptoed towards the bathroom, grabbed something from the bedroom and locked the door. Alex opened the door. A tall police officer looked in and gave an awkward smile.
“Are you Alex Costa?” the man asked the boy.
“No,” Alex replied defiantly with a distinct head flick. “My name is Alex Gordon. My father is George Gordon. We live here. Goodbye,” and he went to close the door. The officer stuck his foot in just as it was about to shut.
“Don’t be afraid Alex,” he said calmly. “We’re here to help you. We’re going to set you free and take you back home away from this mess,” he gestured to the pizza boxes and empty beer bottles and cans that littered the floor.
“I don’t want to leave.”
“Is George here?”
“No.”
“I heard another man’s voice as I stood outside the door, and I saw a shadow through the window that looked like him. Where is he?”
“I’m not telling you.” After he said that, four more officers walked to the door of the apartment.
“We have a warrant to search this apartment, Alex. We’re going in.”
“It’s not going to be easy.”
With that three of the officers grabbed Alex and pulled him outside. The three of them easily overpowered the disgruntled teenager, but not without Alex putting up quite a fight. He managed to get a punch in on one officer, bloodying his lip and kicked another one in the shin. The officers cuffed Alex and put him in the car with one officer standing outside. The other four began searching the tiny apartment.
George sat in the bathtub facing the door with a shotgun in his hand. Broken videotapes surrounded him and scissors lay on the ground. The door cracked open and George started making his move to leave. The officer pushed open the door, but before he could get a look at George, the shotgun went off. George opened the bathroom window and climbed out of the apartment and ran around to the front of the apartment.
The gunshot made Alex jump in the police car. He began looking around frantically, trying some way to get out. He kicked the door of the car and threw his head into the metal barricade separating him and the front seats.
Then he saw George. He was running around the apartment towards the cop car. Alex whimpered softly, half in jubilance for George’s safety and half in fear for what may happen next. The officer who had stayed with Alex in the car now turned and looked at George as he ran straight for him. George fired once at the officer and missed. The officer took cover behind his opened passenger door and took aim. His first shot hit George right in the arm just before another shot rang out; George fired as he was hit sending a bullet straight through the back windshield.
George watched Alex’s body fall to the floor of the car as he fell to the ground. Two officers subdued George as he tried to take his life, while the other two ran to see Alex. George was shaking violently as he lie on the ground, handcuffed and sobbing. One officer stood over him, as another stood away calling for help.
“We have Mr. Gordon. He’s been shot and needs attention,” the officer reported. “We lost one of our own.”
“I’ll have someone out in seconds,” the voice responded. “What about the boy?”
“He was killed in the crossfire.”
The voice on the other end swore and sighed. “And to think he was just about to be set free.”

back to Contest #6