Anniversary

Blue and red lights lit the shadowed street of an otherwise peaceful neighborhood. Murmured conversations could be heard among the family members gathered on their front lawns craning their necks to get a better view of the scene in front of them. The sound of a car door closing echoed through the heat of the summer night, a young detective in his freshly pressed suit stepped forward, notepad in hand.

           “Homicide,” explained the middle aged officer, “coroner said he’s been dead no longer than forty-five minutes.”

           The young detective’s hand scribbled ferociously across his notepad. He stepped beyond the bright yellow caution tape and knelt to one knee. The white chalk on the asphalt street reminded him of his adolescences, but this was far from a childhood game. A boy, no older than 16 years old lay in front of him. A large blood stain in the middle of his white t-shirt showed an entry point just large enough for a bullet, maybe even a few. A dark red stain outlined his corpse.

           “Miles,” the same officer yelled from just outside of the yellow tape, “we have our number one suspect. An old man just across the street, says he won’t talk to nobody ‘cept the detective in charge. Stubborn ol’ bastard,” she finished with a grimace on her face as she pointed to the porch a few houses down.

           The silhouette of a man sitting on a disorganized porch sent a shiver down the spine of Miles. Even in the humid summer heat he could feel the hairs on his arms rise as he surveyed the house. Although it was dark outside, the dull street lamps scattered throughout the neighborhood allowed him to focus in on his next suspect. An old man pushed back and forth on a creaking rocking chair. He held a shotgun in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

The short walk from the crime scene to the house left a line of sweat along the young detective’s forehead. He removed his fedora and wiped his brow with his right arm. He opened the chicken wired fence separating him and the old man in front of the run down house. Cigarette smoke overwhelmed his senses as he stepped forward along the path to the beaten down stairs in front of him.

“Sir,” Miles said with hesitation in his voice, “I’m going to have to ask you to set down the gun. We need to talk.”

“Tell those police officers behind ya ta git off my sidewalk. They ain’t ‘loud here,” the old man pointed his cigarette toward the three police officers who had been following Miles. They stood still on the sidewalk. Miles turned around to address them.

“It’s okay,” he said calmly as he motioned them away with his notepad.

“You’ll talk to me?” Miles said, turning his attention back to the old man.

He gave a nod and took a long drag from his ember covered cigarette. He continued rocking back and forth in his creaking chair, pushing the butt of his shotgun into the ground to maintain his rhythm. 

Miles approached the man with caution. Three steps now separated him and a potential murderer. He thought back to his training.

"Always take in your surroundings! The area around you can kill you or keep you alive. You have the ability to use the things around you to your advantage. You have to remember this!" 

He remembered. He gazed at the white paint peeling from the rotten wooden house. He then turned his gaze to the large window which he noticed peered very nicely into the neighborhood. It was half open, a big crack down its center. The porch was dusty and covered with old antiques and junk. He peered around the corner of the house to see a flattened bike tire hanging around a pipe jutting from the wall of the house. He noticed dying vegetation which encircled the house and an oil stain in the driveway. Finally, the thing that startled him most was an unfinished birthday cake and a half bottle of whiskey on the table next to the old man.

"I just have a few questions for you," Miles said as he clicked his pen. He made his way up the stairs which creaked even worse than the steady sound of the rocking chair. 

"I killed him. Simple as that." 

Miles felt the pen slip through his sweaty hands and his stomach tighten. 

"Excuse me?" 

"Just let me finish up this cigarette and I'll be more than happy to make a statement to them officers as well." He said this cooly, as if asking someone how their day was going. Not a care in the world. 

Miles was bewildered. His mouth was still open trying to wrap his brain around what just happened. 

The old man got up from his rocking chair. The constant creaking finally stopped. He stood up to reveal a large yellow stain on his white thin tank top. There were miscellaneous holes covering his shirt where pale skin could easily be distinguished from the fabric. His blue jeans looked like they hadn't been washed in months and his black boots were covered in mud. 

"Put yer note pad away there boy, there ain't no need for it no more," he said with a half smile on his face. His grey teeth were showing as if they hadn't seen daylight in years. He set the shotgun aside and walked down his creaking steps with his hands above his head. 

***1 hour earlier 

The sun had just set. The Willsdon neighborhood was quiet, like it normally is on a Thursday night. Jack took a drag from his cigarette and blew it into the humid air as he watched it evaporated all around him. He then sat down in his favorite rocking chair. 

"5 years it's been," he said softly enough for only him to hear. He grabbed the large knife to his left and cut through the vanilla cake on the table beside him. He cut out three pieces, one for each of the plates in front of him. 

He reached across the plates and pulled out a news article, which was crudely cut showing one distinct headline:

"Two Killed in Head On Collision. Drunk Driver to Blame"

Jack stared at the two people in the photo. A child and his mother were both smiling happily in front of a bright white house. Bushes, trees, and plant life surrounded the house amplifying its brilliance and beauty. A man in the back was waving from the chair on his front porch. 

He grabbed his fork and took a bite from the cake. His tongue was numb and his eyes began to water. He set the fork aside and took another drag from his cigarette. On the floor next to his rocking chair, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey. He raised it in the air and dumped two drinks out on the front porch beside him. He raised the bottle to his lips and began to drink.

His lips were trembling and alcohol poured down his chin and onto his shirt. He set the bottle on the table and stood up. He began to make his way back inside.

"I told you this was the last straw!" 

Jack froze for only a second before turning around to see two young men standing in the middle of the street. From the dim lights he could make out a red faced young man with bloodshot eyes. There was another boy, his demeanor completely different. His head was down and his face confused. 

"It wasn't me, I swear," the confused boy said. 

"I know for a fact it was you Sid. You bin lookin' at her since the day I told ya I was wit her!" the red faced boy screamed back as he reached into this pocket. 

Jack could just make out a glare, or was it a reflection. The threatening young man had something in his hand. 

“On the day of us being together for a year you go and pull a stunt like this?” The angry boy raised his hand.

Without thinking Jack ran inside the house to his basement. He dodged and weaved through the piles of dirty laundry and stacked paper which covered the floors of his house. Running down stairs he approached a large mounted safe which hung from his wall. After inputting his password the safe swung open revealing a large shotgun and ammunition. 

He grabbed what he could and ran up the stairs while loading the shotgun. He reached the top when he heard a large bang which echoed through the empty streets of Willsdon. 

Jack's forehead began to sweat and his heart seemed to beat through the stain on his white tank top. He ran outside, shotgun in hand, barreling down the creaky steps which lead to the chicken wired gate. He opened it quickly and darted to the street. 

A young man sat in a pool of blood. He had a red blood stain across his chest and his face was pale. Holding him was the young timid boy Jack had seen earlier. Out of breath Jack knelt beside the boy.

"It wasn't me I swear!" the boy said with tears streaming down his dirty face, "ri...ri...ricochet." He pointed with his shaking fingers outlining the path of the bullet back into the dead boy's chest. 

"He was like a brother to me," he cried out in pain. Lights from the surrounding houses began to brighten the streets as sirens could be heard a few miles out. 

Jack knew what had happened and what was going to happen. The police would be here soon and the evidence would be overwhelming.

"Inside quick!" Jack responded without thinking. He grabbed the boy by the arm willing him across the street, up the rickety stairs, and into the cluttered house. 

"What are you doing?" the timid boy said, grasping and rubbing the arm Jack had grabbed. 

"Down to the basement now. And stay quiet!" 

***10 minutes later 

I stood in the basement and caught my breath. I had no idea what just happened or what was going to happen next. My knees were shaking and my heart was pounding with such force I thought it might explode. The area around me was covered in stacks and stacks of newspaper articles. The pipe above my head was leaking.

What was that old man doing? What was he going to say to the police?

The last thing I remember was one of my best friends had a gun pointed directly at me, he pulled the trigger, and before I could open my eyes, he laid dead on the pavement in front of me.

I could tell the sound of the sirens were getting louder outside, but above all else I could hear a feint but steady creaking noise.

Sweat began pouring down my face, it was even hotter in this house than it was outside. I began pacing back and forth, not knowing what the safest option for me would be. There had to be witnesses, right? Lights in the houses turned on seconds after the gunshots. There would be no talking my way out of this one.

I then heard a voice coming from outside. It was too feint to make out words. Wait, there was another voice. The old man? I need a closer look.

I made my way back up the stairs which opened into a kitchen connecting to a living room. The place was a mess. Stains covered the floors, the furniture was in disarray, and mold lined the ceilings. Above all else the smell was putrid. It was almost as if an animal had died and no one was there to wrap the body. Did someone actually live here?

I then looked through a great window which separated me from sudden arrest. Through a large crack I could see the back of the old man’s balding head. He stood up and placed his shotgun to the side. He then put his hands over his head and walked away with the man in front of him.

He turned himself in. But why?

I squatted beneath the window. They would most likely be investigating his house, right? I need to get out of here.

I made my way through the living room and back into the kitchen. I could see a back door which lead to what looked like an alleyway. I took steady strides forward past a table in the middle of the kitchen. I stopped for a second.

This table was clean. An opened calendar lay directly in the middle. I couldn’t resist as I walked over to the table to get a better look. Today’s date was circled and in big, bright red letters a shaky hand had written: Anniversary.