Friday, 4 January 2013

We must pick out what is good for us where we can find it. (Pablo Picasso)

Just after dawn a soft beeping stirred me from my slumber. There was a man at the door.

“Uncle Rider?” I asked myself. “What a relief!”

Apprehensive after the events of the previous day I watched the screen a moment longer before breaking out of my safe haven. Thankfully so, for the man creeping into my house was not my uncle.

It was my mother’s father. Had it been him? Had he tipped off the police? How else would he know? My God, I was furious. I looked at the guns beside my feet and thought bad things.

With fire in my eyes and my blood boiling in my veins, I watched him walk about the house and leave after the fruitless endeavour.

I snorted a couple lines of heroin, just to keep myself sane.

Soon enough, Uncle Rider pushed open the unlocked door and walked into what was left of his father’s house. I barrelled down the stairs and wanted to dive into his arms but something about him made me freeze before I reached him. He was my uncle by blood but I didn’t know him. I knew who he was and I knew all about him, but I didn’t know him, not really.

“Hi.” He pushed his dark Ray Bans over his too long hair. It wasn’t long like a hippie but it was long for one of my family members. It was shiny in a bad way and almost reached his chin. It was a little wavy and light brown. There were streaks of sunlight in it. It wasn’t dyed blond but just could see touches of sunshine as if the California sun clung on to some strands as he tried to leave.

“Hi.”

“Are you okay?”

I nodded. I wanted to cry now.

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