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Guitars and Suicides: Chapter Seven

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You really are, honestly, a decent guy,” Amie complimented. I looked at her, she had said that last night. I was ready to respond to her this time.
“Thanks, but, how so?” I asked, because I was puzzled and confused. I see myself as this normal guy in a regular high school in this indifferent society. I have a best friend, two close friends and a few other friends. My dad left, five years ago, and has never come back. Schoolwork is not so amazing in my grades, nor do I play any sports and I play occasionally with the guitar.
“Well,” she began to explain, “You look after your friends. Who in the world cares for a friend as much as you do?”
“Mark’s not just a friend, he is family,” I looked at her. She looked back, and smiled. Her face gave out an “Oh, I see.” She looked very interested in my life, and Mark’s life.
The minute hand stroked the twelve and the hour hand landed on the three; out came the loud annoying school bell which signaled the end of a hard day’s work of education. The hallway became crowded and stuffy with teenage body odor and strong perfume. Crowds and crowds of people stormed through the four sets of double doors down at the first story. Jumping off the staircases and anywhere on the second story or higher is strictly prohibited. Drastic punishment follows the crime; juvis never learn from their mistakes. Either they are too dumb or they do not care.
Mark appeared before us, eager to head back home.
“How was your day?” he asked us.
“The school is amazing, a lot bigger than my old school,” Amie claimed. Mark had to ask the question, “What was your old school like?” and she launched off with a ten minute story and descriptions of her catholic hell house.
We were at the front of the school by this time; she walked a couple steps in front of us and turned around. “Where are you guys going?” she asked.
“Home,” I blurted. Mark looked at me. “Come on, let’s go home.”
Mark, still looking at me, nodded and we went off. She lagged behind, inviting herself to my house. So bold she is, but I barely even know her. Mark does not even know her at all. “I am… going this way too,” she called to us. We stopped and waited for her to catch up and the three of us went on our adventure trek home.

The wind started to blow harder and the trees started to howl louder. Her black boots thumped the ground; backpacks jingled every step we took. Cars zipped by as parents carpooled their kids back home. Into the cull de sac we went. There was a brown Honda parked on the sidewalk curb, between two houses. It looked new, and shiny. The neighbor must have bought a new car.
Once in the cull de sac, the heated conversation between Amelia and Mark about canned food died and a new one started.
“Who lives in your house, Quet?” she asked me.
“Just my mom and my sister,” I answered.
“Where’s your dad?”
“On vacation.” I should not have said that. The moment right after I said that, a cold chill ran down my spine. Something bad was going to happen, it was this feeling that stuck to you like super glue. “The man who jumped off the brigde…” I muttered.
“What?” she said.
We entered the house; there was shuffling in the kitchen. Momma was working and Cap was still at school. I walked towards the entrance and saw a figure, fishing through the refrigerator. He stood up, closed it. He was the same build as me, but a foot taller than me. He had light brown hair, and grey on the top and sides. His eyes reflect no remorse or regret, but were enraged with passion and accomplishment. He had dark eyes, brown originally, but had faded in color into a dark color, almost the same color as his pupils. He wore a silver watch on his left wrist with the initials CK on it. “Hello, Son,” his deep voice echoed through the room. He approached me, but stopped, because he saw how much in pain I was in.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked. Mark and Amie entered the room. He was as shocked as I was and she was as puzzled as we both were.
“I don’t like your tone, boy,” the man said, “Is this how you greet your father?”
He looked at Mark, then to Amie, and then finally at me. He walked around the kitchen, taking bites at his sandwich he concocted. “How long has it been, five years?”
“You did not answer my question,” I bickered. He looked agitated, and ingested down the rest of his snack.
“Who are your friends?” he asked me.
“I’m Mark, and this is Amie,” Mark said. He pointed to Amie as a greeting.
It was such an awkward moment for all of us. Andre Gilligands, the man who left his family five years and never made contact with them until now. What did he want from us? I did not want to press the question. I squeezed my fists and calmed down my anger. I left the room and went towards the stairs.
Hey, uhh… Tonight, I have something for you,” he said. I turned to look at the kitchen; all I could see is the entrance and the side cupboards. I did not answer him back; I looked at Mark and Amie. We all started up the stairs into my room.
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