Laying Roses

“Fuck you dad!”

He screeched one final retort just before slamming the heavy oak door; it roared a thunderous echo throughout the corridor. Thumbtacks rained down from the walls pitter-pattering on the wood floor like a tin roof. Bouncing Souls and Anti-flag posters struck the ground in black zigzags as heavy dark clouds gathered in the back of Aaron’s mind.

8:57.

Only an hour before the show, and now he was confined to his room, a convict in his father’s house. The brown boarded floor between rust colored walls showed signs of age and wear, with only a few nails properly fastened down. There was no source of light in the room except a high grimy window that leaked just enough sunshine throughout the day and the amber ember of a lit Virginia Slim, stolen from his mother’s purse, that glowed against his face at night. Sweat stained clothes were scattered across his bare bed, Black Flag t-shirts and plaid pants, studded belts and black suspenders. The mattress was old and soiled, spattered with blood and piss. Ever since his sister’s accident he had frequent nightmares; he would be running from his father and find himself trapped in a corner. When he woke up he was laying in a puddle of urine, blood dripping down his face. Seven years ago his older sister Sarah became permanently paralyzed.
That night had been typical for their father, Jim Beam and soft-core porn, sweaty and filthy on his grimy orange sofa, which usually lead to screaming at and beating their mother. Sometimes he would hit Aaron, whose left eye remained nearly blind as a result of one such occasion. But this night he was atop the stairs to their apartment, waiting. Sarah’s boyfriend, a member of a local fraternity whose house had held the party, left her to walk home by herself, drunk and alone. She hadn’t even seen him there, when he threw the door open, knocking her down all eighteen steps. When she woke up her neck was braced and her body numb, the paramedics had saved her life but not her mind. Sarah was cursed to be a brain-dead, vegetable. Father should have killed her.
Since that night, his head was plagued with hateful things, horrific images. A hatred spread like disease through his heart. He hated his father. He hated his life.

9:32.

He was jerking off again. The Victoria’s Secret catalog formed a loose paper bridge between his thin hairless thighs. Page Eighteen: bras and teddies. The supple breasts and flowing legs were nice to look at and they helped, but were not what interested him. What he focused on, not the whole time, but, just before that moment, was her face. His yearbook had provided ample access to pictures of her. Such a soft baby powder face, pasted over some model's, it melted the page around it. Her tissue soft chin and silk cheekbones ran down her face like cream. The fluffy pink wig appeared to defy the rules of the two-dimensional cutout. What he would do, just to smell that cotton candy or taste that milky skin. Thinking about tonight made his heart thump wildly behind his bony chest. Now he could hear the distant buzz of cars pulling into the show. The music at the Toolshed was deafening and fast, it rumbled the high window like rhinos roaring past. The sound was fast and steady, like blood pumping. Rhythm and tempo, pounding, thumping, beating, pulsing, throbbing, racing. Faster now. Shaking, sobbing, moaning, pacing, crying. Her face.
The ebony toilet seat was cold and uncomfortable so he stood up fast. He caught a whiff of his own body odor; it was like sulfur and sickness, radiating from his armpits. It floated around the room and followed him down the hall. She might like that, he thought. Aaron was what his classmates liked to refer as the “skunk”; he rarely showered and was usually quite unaware of his stench. But this time he noticed, and even sort of liked it, it smelled like a man. His mom had told him that he would become a man one day, but he had never believed her. The way his dad always called him “boy” or “kid,” made him think that he would always be a child. Maybe today was the day he became a man.
His mother was a quiet, fragile teenager when she gave birth to Sarah, and not much older when she had Aaron. Now she was weathered and beaten, always sporting a new bruise, or welt, due entirely to his father’s alcoholism. She had always worn the marks like medals, not to be proud of, but to remind her of survival and her will to live. Recently however her will was breaking, she never left the bedroom not for anything. Sarah was in the adjoining guest room that made it easier for their mother to tend to her without actually leaving the room. Aaron hadn’t seen his mom for days, his only proof of her were the sounds he heard through the wall. She cried.

9:51

Aaron crawled into a pair of plaid pants, too small for a boy half his age, and strapped on his black suspenders. They were the same pants he was wearing when he first saw the pink haired girl and, like the rest of what he was wearing tonight, he hadn’t washed them since that day. It was good luck.
She was a new student at Charles Bukowski High but fit in perfectly with the popular clique. Her vibrant face and apathetic attitude placed her in contention with the most highly sought after girls in the eleventh grade. Unfortunately it also meant she caught the eye of the most revered guy in school, and lead singer of the local punk band “The Savory Flavors.” They were headlining at the Toolshed tonight and Aaron wasn’t going to miss it, he didn’t want to let her down by not showing up.

“FUCK YOU BITCH!”

Dad and mom were in the bedroom, Aaron could hear his mangling aggression towards her. Someday, when he was older, he would kill that motherfucker. His mom and Sarah could come live with him and his rosy-haired angel, he hadn’t decided if they would be married by then or not. When the time comes, he thought, it will be her decision.
Now was his chance to get out of the house. He didn’t want to leave his innocent mother alone in that hell, with the devil himself, but he had to go now. He slid his father’s Beretta into his pocket and methodically tiptoed around the squeaky boards, as though it were a maze, and out the door. His checkered Chuck Taylor’s echoed a triumphant squawk, like a mother duck calling her young, as he ran awkwardly down the sidewalk.


The chilled air ran past Aaron’s fragile exposed neck, he didn’t shudder. He was too excited, too determined, the beating drum of passion drove him ever onward down the dimly lit lane. His heart thumped quicker the closer he got; matching the rhythm of the bass line he could hear playing on the next block. The smell of fresh cut grass spiced the cool breeze as the blades floated around Aaron’s feet. Every step brought him closer to her, his angel, his lover.
The Toolshed was just ahead of him; it stood a crumbling statue of teen angst and unwed motherhood. The four members of “The Savory Flavors” rented it, but their fathers paid it for. They were the sorts of kids whose mommy and daddy paid for everything, even their house. The building was three stories high, and defied the laws of gravity just by standing. Spider web cracks ran up and down all four sides of the house from the blood red roof to the dying yellow lawn. It was a menacing structure, towering over the neighbors’, which sat in shadow. Holes in the shingled roof let in the deep yellow moonlight, and let out all the various odors and gases that built up inside. It was called the Toolshed because of the random assortment of carpentry and mechanical tools on the front lawn. It had been a tradition since the house was purchased, for every band playing on a given night to bring and hurl these “instruments” onto the ground. Aaron thought it was stupid, mostly because he never got to do it.
The walls of the house dripped spray paint and grime like honey on its comb. The bees were swarming their hive tonight and Aaron had to wiggle his way through them to make it inside. The low buzz of amplifiers rang through his ears while the next band prepared their set. The shed was crawling with social parasites just like Aaron; he felt at home here with them, they were his family. Now he had only to find his bride, amongst the bevy of mosh-pits and grunge-heads she had might as well have been invisible. His eyes whirled wildly about the room like a tornado searching for the next trailer park to ravage.

10:12

The band was starting. Aaron didn’t care about these low rate poser bands; they just jumped around stage like idiots and sounded like shit anyways. She must be in another room. A long hallway covered by posters and sharpie marker led to the smoking room.
Thick clouds billowed out of the half open door, blinding Aaron for a moment until his eyes squinted and adjusted accordingly. A mist of hazy smoke enveloped his lungs as he inhaled deeply in search of oxygen. The small back room reeked of burnt leaves and sweat, a single window sat high on the wall leaking dim rays of moonlight. Once his pupils widened enough to be able to see, Aaron had still not found her. There were just a few kids, probably loser sophomores, sitting around a hookah. They offered him a hit, but he declined, he was feeling dizzy as it was, and his stomach was ready to turn.
In the main room now the band was finishing up its third song, it was even more crowded and steam rose from the hot bodies. A tepid stench tickled at Aaron’s nostrils, and the walls were spinning around him. He was going to puke. Milky bile was bubbling up his throat, like an acid volcano ready to erupt. Blood rushed to his face, and his eyes started to water, he couldn’t hold it back. He turned and spewed. Thick chunks of that morning’s breakfast and lunch shot out of his mouth like an over-turned dumpster just after the rain. He spit and chucked and dropped down to his knees, the force from the vomit bringing him to the ground. The 9mm fell to the floor.
Aaron quickly grabbed the gun from the pool of processed food chunks and hurriedly attempted to conceal it. Before he could do so, black-clad partiers surrounded him. He scanned the crowd, thinking over his possible options of escape, or in the least how to avoid more embarrassment. It was her! But she was covered in something. It was a slimy mucus-like substance. It was barf. He had blown chunks all over his pink haired angel. Her boyfriend stood next to her.

“Fuck you dude!”

He was long and skinny, but looked tough. As tough as any guy with earrings can look, he started taking off his belt and moving toward Aaron. As he swung his bony arm Aaron felt a burning sting rush across his chest, he flinched and staggered back. He had never fought before, which is why he came prepared.
He had taken his dad’s gun off the mahogany mantle in the guest room, television had taught him how to load and use it, and he was prepared to do so. Aaron had planned on calling his foe out, in front of the crowd, like a knight saving his princess. Now here he was, his princess covered in slime, his adversary with the upper hand, and his pants wet with piss. He gripped the black handle of the Luger and searched for the trigger with his index finger. A second lash from the belt came roaring down on his shoulder. Aaron clumsily drew the charcoal colored pistol in his left hand aiming, pointing errantly in front of him. The air around him stood still, the music stopped, he could taste sausage and eggs and bile. A calming chill ran up his crooked spine, his heart slowed to a murmur. The chill reached his head, like the feeling he got when his lemonade was just a little too sour. It was a nice feeling. He pulled the trigger. Twice.
The recoil sent the Beretta flying back out of his hands; his wrist crackled behind the force. As he held his fractured bones he looked down at two bodies. One was black and cold, the other a pale powdered body lay swimming in blood on the wood paneled floor. Like a bouquet of flowers, her arms were withered leaves, and her locks like rosebuds. Strands of pink hair floated on top of the sanguine stream like salmon returning home to spawn. She was home now, just like the salmon.
This wasn’t what he wanted; it wasn’t what she wanted. They were meant to be together, she loved him. He knew it.
Aaron stumbled over to where the pistol had landed, the house was empty now; everyone had run like cowards. His Converse stuck to the blood-drowned floor as he reached to pick up the gun. His last words rang through his head like a funeral march, fuck you dad, he thought. The orange moon floated on the horizon as he staggered through the front door onto the lawn. A mourning dove cooed in the distance and Aaron stared at the sky. The hollow muzzle was cold against his temple. He felt for the trigger. Then pulled it. His skeleton fingers loosened, the gun fell. He dropped it amongst the other tools. Police sirens drowned out the thud of a black soul, hitting the dirt.