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Guitars and Suicides: Chapter Eight

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Footsteps fade from the carpet after hours of departure. The room was silent, dark, and left a contemplative setting. The desk was clean for once, the floor was shirtless and paperless, and the closet odor was febreezed away. All for that certain guess who happen to have met two very good friends on her first day of school.
Compliments have been permanently painted on the guitar as Marked played that night. Nothing sounded more magnificent than what he had played.
“Who says you are mentally disabled? You are smarter than any normal kid; that is an unbelievable feat.”

The room was empty, except for me, I lay on my bed. I did not come down for dinner, nor did my friends. I would not have mattered anyways. Momma was overjoyed to see that dead man. What has he been doing for all these years? He was despicable, we all forgot about him, we all carried on with our lives, but he had to glue us back to the past. Laughter and heart-filled stories echoed downstairs. It has been five years, five long years.

“Dad, give me a motorbike instead of a car on my sixteenth birthday!” My twelve year old self exclaimed. We were walking to the local drug store for my sister. She had the flu and needed over the counter nighttime grape favor goodness.
“Yeah, I’ll give you one. It’s a lot cheaper than a car,” he said. He looked back to me. “Son, I love you.”
“I love you too, Dad,” I repeated.
Everything was in perfect shape. This local plaza was brand new, just opened a few weeks ago. After picking up the medication, we went back home. I went up to my room and picked up my guitar and started practicing major panetonic scales. This light sun tanned, hallow bodied, rosewood neck, and silver tipped head became my favorite and most prized possession. Its stunning perfection reflected the room of its magnificence.
Mark rang the doorbell that day, and I ran out to meet him. He was shorter than me, still had such a cheery look on his face. His hands were roughened up because of his daily chores; moving the tires and adjusting the fences around the park. He looked happy to see me, and so I was I to him.
“Hey Simon,” he called.
“Hey, let’s go to the bridge,” I suggested.
“Okay,” he exclaimed. We trekked out of the cull de sac, out to the right and down the street and a few more turns. It was during the middle of winter and the riverbed shined dull, plain cement grey. The Community of Safety urged the mayor to drain the water from the rivers until spring began. Last year, the water in the dams froze and cracked open millions of pipes and drains, summing up to a quarter millions worth of damage. Fortunately the town had money to spare and the dams were replaced. This year, we were expected an early spring, so the dams are set to function eight weeks in advance.
We could see the mayor’s office from the bridge. Not many buildings have been placed yet. The mayor’s house was a vibrant brick red color, because it was built purely out of red bricks, one hundred years back. The Commercial Bank was still in construction, only wood frames carved the outline of what will be in five years, a there story building. The banks were coated in yellowish green grass, and dirt. Cars drove by as we walked down to the bank.
It was cold, around twenty degrees cold. Mark had on a tux like jacket and I wore a grey hoody, displaying three men and the giant word “Jawbreaker” as its logo. Black and Blue denim jeans were winter fashion, along with women’s uggs and men’s commando boots. We had plain outfits, nothing too light, winter was always harsh here. A few feet north of the bridge was a giant billboard with the famous little girl and quotes “The sun will com out, tomorrow!” as the town’s slogan as spring crept on winter’s doorstep.
The river bottom was a desolate place; pure ten foot thick slab of concrete ran over the natural earth. Nearly the end of winter break, Mark and I decided to spend our remaining days camping out here. Gerard and Ingrid also came along, but they would meet us here later. Gerard was still a few years older than us; he had blonde hair at the time. He was lanky yet small; he still looked like a thug, even five years ago. Ingrid was still five and a foot tall; she was paler back then, and thinner. Her overlarge bag was as significant five years ago as it was now.
Just then, a group (about six) walked along the river bottom. Antonio Fisting and his crew of miscreants stalked the premises; he was looking for a fight. One of the most infamous people in Carlson Train High, he was a bulky, muscular and tall figure. He always wore a black leather or blue denim jacket, just like the Greece thugs. His right hand man was Jake Loying. The rest, I forgot their names. They were a year ahead of us in school, eighth. Of course, they were ganged up by the high school. That did no stop Antonio though; he stalks the Jr. High kids like antelopes. There was a story that he stabbed a senior awhile back. There was absolutely no evidence to that story, yet. He approached us.
“Well, well, well,” he greeted, “Look what we have here, some retard and his retard buddy.
“Leave us alone, Antonio, we didn’t do anything to you,” I said.
“Ah, but it just so happens that a group of seniors attacked me last weekend. I want revenge.” He looked around and continued, “So I will just have to take it out on…” His finger was pointed in a direction that both Mark and I knew, us. “You two!” he finished. Three guys started to get closer to us. I was scared, shaky, my legs felt like jell-o. What did I do to deserve this? Antonio stepped up and grabbed Mark by the collar of his jacket.
“Wait!” Mark shouted. Antonio looked surprised, and put Mark down on the ground. He took a long pause, and sighed deeply. Suddenly, he lashed forward with is right foot. It soared at a ninety degree angle, if you connected leg to leg, right between Antonio’s legs. Antonio fell quickly to the ground, squirming, screaming, high pitched I might add. His friends all gathered around him, trying to pick him up. “Run!” I heard a shout behind me. I looked back, Mark was a few feet away, and his back turned, sprinted for dear life. I did the same.
I heard a faint “GET THEM!” I realized that this was a chase, three henchmen ran after us. One was a really pudgy fellow, the slowest of the three. The first one closest to us was Jake, and the middle man was a buff character. I caught up to Mark. “Antonio is going to jump at us when we reach the light,” Mark said, “From the right side.”
I managed to puff an “Okay” and we sprinted off into a nearby alley in between two rows of neighboring houses back to back with each other. The alley was shaped like an “L”, for the neighborhood turned to the left where three green dumpsters lay and the exit. Footsteps quickened and closed in, we sprinted faster.
“Split up,” Mark ordered. Once we reached out of the alley, I went straight into another alley and Mark made a right. I turned to the left and I saw Antonio and his buddy searching for us at the intersection. He spotted us and pointed so his buddy could see. They started after us too. It was a one versus three on both ends. I had Jake and two other fellows, and Mark had Antonio, tailing right behind him. Mark and I were the most agile of the eight of us, thank god. I lost visual of Mark as I entered the alleyway. It turned from houses to the backs of convenient stores. Unfortunately, the alleyway was a dead end. I was fifty feet away from the bight brown wooden fence at the end. I noticed these green trash bins on the side. I quickly ran up and jumped on the trash cans and leaped over the fence. The distance between the trash bins and the fence was about fifteen to twenty feet. Barely anyone could make such a distance. I looked up at the fence and I realized I did not have enough jump to my step and I started to fall closer to the fence. Suddenly, this miracle gust of wind picked me up and I sailed out of the ally. Jake tried to make the jump, but landed too soon and broke his nose against the fence. The other two stopped the chase after me to try to tend to their friend’s injury.
I collapsed on the ground; I had no great landing skills whatsoever. I could feel blood dripping down my leg from under my pants. My arm was completely scratched and started to bleed. I did not care, it did not hurt, the adrenalin was pumping so much, and it acted as a miracle steroid. I got up with ease and started to run to find Mark.
It was the most ridiculous reason to get chased. Gerard and Ingrid must have been at the bridge, wondering where we were. Mark must have run back to the bridge, since they should be there already. I ran back. I saw two figures huddled around something on the ground. As I got closer, I realized it was not Gerard and Ingrid but Antonio and his buddy. Antonio had a switchblade and a lighter in his hands. His buddy held down Mark as Antonio lit his lighter. He placed the jagged knife over the little fire until it glowed a redish color. Not long after that, he took the knife and injected it in Mark’s arm.
A bloodcurdling scream came after. Antonio scratched Mark’s arm until it was covered fully in steaming blood. Mark squirmed and squirmed, but all I could do was watch. Mark stopped screaming, which meant he lost consciousness. I began to run towards the group, not knowing what I would do. The shuffling in the dry grass alerted the two standing above the lifeless Mark. They stood up, I stopped. Time began to slow down, the wind bustled and hurled; I could see the breeze right before my eyes. Antonio still clutched the switchblade with the bright burning red knife which was now dull silver.
I was enraged, but I could not do anything. It was a fight between two men, one with a weapon versus a single child. Odds are that the child will win, even if they were both unarmed. Strength and endurance from experience toughen up the mind and body. My mind was clouded in revenge. I sprinted forward, aiming towards Antonio. They jumped, surprised, but Antonio readied himself with his switchblade. His buddy was behind him, backing him up if Antonio ever did reveal a flaw.
Suddenly there was a noise from above, a green Chevy was beaming over us. A man and Gerard stood over us, the sun angled towards them, darkening their appearance. Antonio backed up, shaken, his face turn pale white. His friend was quite calm, though.
“Let’s get out of here,” he loudly whispered to his buddy and they both left. Gerard and the older man shuffled down the bank towards us. I assumed the older man was Gerard’s father. He looked at Mark and gave a disgusting look. “Wow, those boys sure know how to kill someone.” His low, deep voice basically echoed the river bottom. Gerard went over to pick up Mark; he looked at me, and said, “You look really beat up.”
“It’s nothing,” I shrugged. My arm hurt a little, my legs felt like they could fall apart at any second, and my heart was throbbing because of the hard sprint. Gerard put Mark in the back seat; I went and sat next to him. His dad and Gerard got into the car. The ignition revived the vehicle’s life and we went off to the hospital.
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