Round Robin Story Debate Rd. 1, Pt. 2

I drove home in the afternoon of a mid-December Monday to an empty house, from an empty school day to resume an empty life. The faint smell of fresh paint and the evergreen musk of our Frasier Fir Christmas tree greeted me as I entered the kitchen through the garage. I was seventeen, and a senior in high school. My father had gone undergone a surgery earlier in the morning and my mother was still at the hospital. Since I was home alone, I helped myself to a tall scotch on the rocks left over from the Christmas party my parents hosted the previous saturday night. I knew the alcohol would be off my breath before anyone came home.Drink in hand, I walked upstairs to my room where I took a Vicodin pill I scored from a friend and washed it down with the scotch. But before going to sleep, I opened my window and stepped out onto my roof for a cigarette. The scotch was long gone. The sharp cigarette smoke beautifully complimented crisp winter air. It was cold outside, but I was warm from the liquor, and my navy blue wool pea. Sitting outside and alone was refreshing. Grey clouds softened the sky, and a gentle breeze kissed the trees with whispering gratitude. When I finished my cigarette, I flicked the butt into the bushes below and climbed back into my window. I took off my coat and laid down.Usually when I mixed prescription pain killers and alcohol I didn’t have dreams. It was a pleasant relief from the nightmares that had plagued me all my life. I only slept well when I was drunk or high, but I didn’t have any pot then. Only pills, but they would suffice for the time being. The heater came on and I felt the warm air from the duct above on my face, but the dust from the ceiling fan hampered the pleasure of the experience. It wasn’t long before I faded off into the black abyss of an opiate induced nap.An unfamiliar knock on my door woke me up at around five that evening. I stood up out of bed and checked my breath, which still smelled like cigarettes and scotch. After popping a piece of gum into my mouth, I unlocked the door.“Michael, come downstairs.” Tom instructed. He beckoned towards the stirs"“Why?” I was confused and a bit disoriented. “Is something wrong?”Tom reemphasized his gesture as if to firmly reiterate his directive. Tom Young was a family friend, a minister and one of the few men my father truly and unequivocally trusted in the world. He was the minister that performed my parents wedding. He was practically family, although he and his wife rarely visited during the week. I looked over the bannister into the living room below and I saw my mother and grandmother and Tom’s wife Abigail who was trying to hold my mother up on the couch to prevent her from falling over. As I walked downstairs, Tom summoned my brother from his bedroom.The Christmas tree was still lit since I forgot to turn it off before I went out to smoke on my roof, and a soft fire burned in the fireplace. Presents lined the bottom of our sixteen foot tree, and the lights glistened on their ribbon. At first glance, it almost seemed as if we were going to celebrate Christmas early, but from my mothers posture and the mood of the others in now in the living room, I knew something was wrong. I sat down on one end of the couch and my brother sat beside me before Abigail began to speak.“Michael. Bryant. I,” she began “I have some bad news.” She seemed to be caught for breath, without being exasperated. She looked me in the eyes, and began to cry herself.“Abigail, I’ll tell them.” Tom began. “Boys, there is no easy way to say this.”“Say wha-” I cautiously interjected, before being spoken over.“Stop talking and let me finish.” He cut me off. “Your dad didn’t make it through the surgery. He’s gone.”“He’s gone?” I was confused. “He’s ‘gone’? What the hell does that mean, he’s gone?” I raised my voice.“Michael, you’re dad passed away. He’s in heaven now.” Tom seemed to apologize in his tone. My brother’s eyes watered and he ran upstairs back to his room. I began to speak but nothing came out. I felt tears in my eyes and I tucked my head between my knees, with my arms on my neck as if to shield myself from the room. The lights from the Christmas tree reflected through my tears as I wept. Tom placed his hands on my shoulders and I heard Abigail walk up the stairs to see after my brother. I heard something hit the hardwood floors, and when I looked up I saw my mother on her knees crying into the seat of the sofa. My own contacts almost fell out as my eyes continued to swell from the tears. I had never lost such control of my composure. It could have been the residual impact of the scotch and pain killers, but that moment of stricken grief seemed eternal in the moment I lived it. I had never seen my mother cry like that. I had never felt as sad as I did as I looked over to the Christmas tree through teary eyes in total disbelief at what I heard. After ten minutes or so, I walked back upstairs and locked the door. I opened my window and went out on my roof for another cigarette.The sun had gone down by now and the air was cooler. Soft grey skies were replaced by a dark and ominous sky as the snow began to fall. The smell of burning firewood against the night air and cigarette smoke seemed to dull the pain. I took another prescription pain pill I scored from a friend earlier that day in addition to another Vicodin. I wanted to black out completely, and I did. I didn’t wake up until noon the next day, but even when I did I didn’t bother to get out of bed. It was miserable outside. The blowing snow seemed to set the mood of our household. I laid in my bed and stared at the ceiling, still in disbelief. I lit a cigarette in bed and let the ash fall on my shirt. I didn’t even bother to put the cigarette out, I just dropped it in yesterdays now dry scotch glass. I wondered how upset my father would be if he knew I was drinking his scotch, or that I was smoking in the house, or that I had steadily been spending all of my money on prescription pain killers and pot. In my head I rehearsed the conversation. He would be furious. I would sit in silence while being yelled at. He would make threats and try to ground me. I would get in my car and leave. I was grateful that my last words to him were ‘I love you, dad' and that I hugged him goodbye before I left for school that morning. I stood up and opened my door to walk downstairs. Abigail sat across from my mother and grandmother, who both looked up as I walked out onto the stairs. The expressions on their faces suggested that they wanted to ask how I was, but they already knew. I was drowning in a frozen ocean, caught in currents of grief and self destruction, unable to break through the ice.They all sat in the living room, my mother, grandmother and Abigail. I opened the liquor cabinet and took a bottle of vodka and sat it on the counter. I poured a half glass of orange juice and took them both up to my room. I walked right past the living room. No one even noticed, or if they did, no one cared enough to say anything. After filling the rest of the glass with vodka and stirring the mixture with my finger, I walked into my brother’s room where he was awake and staring at the ceiling just as I was earlier.“Do you have any weed?” I asked.“Yeah.” He pointed over to his closet. “You want to get high?"“Yeah.” Bryant was almost expressionless.After we went into my room, my brother opened the bottle of vodka and took a few gulps. I looked at him in disbelief. He stared blankly back at me. I opened the window and we went out on the roof. We smoked in total silence. The housewife next door was walking her dogs. The kids across the street were playing basketball. Our neighbors to the left were stacking firewood. The lawyer behind us was smoking a cigar in his study with the window open so his wife wouldn’t complain. The lives of others went on. I packed another bowl.“Do you think dad ever smoked weed?” Bryant asked. “Probably.” I replied. “Yeah.” He concurred.