The Will (Chapter 2)

June 19, 1984 4:48 P.M.

Stephen stood over the open casket, peering down at the man he loved more than anyone else. The man who taught him how to play basketball. The man who gave him advice on girls. The man who on Stephen’s sixteenth birthday gave him his very first condom and told him to make good use of it. 'To think, dead, just because of some drunken mistake. Damnit, he was trying to fight his alcoholism too. I am looking at his dead body and I still can’t believe it. It’s just not fair.' A single tear formed below Stephen’s right eye. He wiped it away. He was never much of a crier. Al told him that crying was for queers.
“Man this place is sweet.” said Mark, interrupting Stephen’s train of thought. “Though I feel the color black is definitely being overused.”
“It’s a funeral, what do you expect. And lower your voice.” whispered Stephen.
“Uh huh, whatever you say. Ah man, look at that chick over by the counter. Wow, is she a looker. Even crying she still turns me on.”
“You’re a disgrace of a human being, you know that right?”
“You take life way too seriously. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m looking for the snack dish.”

June 19, 1984 11:27 P.M.

Stephen grasped the frosted door handle and twisted it. It sent shivers down his spine. He slowly pushed the door open, speechless at what he saw. The walls were made entirely of shimmering crystals. The floor was black hardwood. The stairway was mahogany red. “He was a rich bastard that sadly had no sense of fashion”, gleamed Mark who was standing just behind Stephen.
“Well, you drove me here and I am grateful. Guess that’s …it?” Stephen pondered.
“…ah boy, sure was rich…”, Mark said missing Stephen’s hints.
“So umm, what’re you still doing here?”
“Ain’t ya gonna invite me in for some coffee?”
“Well, you are already in the house. And I don’t know if there is any coffee here.”
“Bollocks. Look around you. If I looked hard enough I bet I could find some child porn and snuff films in here. An’ don’t even argue that. I bet your lonely uncle was a perverted freak.”
“Okay, my patience in you is running short. I’m trying not to punch you in the mouth right now. Gotta be honest, isn’t easy. Now I would really appreciate it if you would leave.”
“Okay, okay, must come out with the truth right now.” Mark looked down at his feet as he fiddled with his fingers. “I kinda have no place to stay. Was wundrin’ if I could stay with you - please?”
“Alright, I guess I’ll be honest too. I don’t like you. I really don’t like you. If I read the newspaper one day and saw your name in the obituaries I wouldn’t even think about it for a second. I don’t know how anyone could live with you. Chances are if I let you live here, I’ll end up hanging myself within the first week.”
“So …is that a no?”
“Are you serious?”
“Just look outside mate. Pouring rain. Any hobo sleeping on his back tonight will probably drown. I really have no place to stay. Landlord kicked me out. Couldn’t keep up with the rent. Please. Just do this for me.”
“Tonight only. I want you gone in the morning.”
“Ah hell yeah man, sleep over!”
Somehow I think I’m going to regret this decision.

June 23, 1984 3:03 A.M.

Stephen Finney woke suddenly and sat up. He ran his hand through his hair (now soaked in sweat). He heard a faint scratching noise. Stephen pushed his blankets to the side and got out of bed slowly. He flicked on the light switch but saw nothing out of the ordinary. The bedroom was empty except for the king sized bed and a golden mantle place which took up an entire wall. “I think I’m going insane …I need a drink.”

Mark Bennfield sat upright on the edge of his bed; his eyes glued to the twenty-seven inch television less than a foot away from him (after an hour of sucking up he convinced Stephen to let him stay for a week longer until he got his next paycheck). He had been flicking the channels furiously for the last hour. “Over three hundred channels and no good porn. What’s happening to this country?” Mark heard a weak but rather distinctive screeching sound behind him. Forgetting about the TV, he swerved his body around. Seeing nothing. “Huh, that was odd,” he said, and turned his focus back to the television. He heard the high pitched screech again, only this time louder. Mark froze, dropping the remote out of his right hand.

A rugged hand grabbed the refrigerator door handle. Stephen stopped, his hand shaking. He exhaled deeply then opened the door. He went straight for the bottle of bourbon, hauled out of the cork in a swift movement and jerked his head back along with the drink. He made large gulps every five seconds, drops escaped his mouth and rolled down his cheek. When he was down to the last drop he took a half-drunkenly step backwards and dropped the bottle, shattering instantly. Stephen’s body swayed slightly, and he took one step forward, his bare foot coming down on the shards of glass. He was too drunk to notice the pool of blood forming around his foot. This was the forth night in a row that Stephen had been woken up due to unexplained noises. He kept telling Mark, but he just called Stephen crazy. “Again. Too much now ..hasn stopped,” mumbled Stephen, who was nearly incomprehensible.

Mark’s neck twitched as he paced himself down the stairs, only separating his legs an inch each time to make a step. He heard (or thought he heard) the same screeching noise the previous three nights. But this night it had been at its loudest. He knew now that it was real. It had to be. Mark always knew he was an arrogant, obnoxious prick that lacked social-skills and common decency, but he always considered himself perfectly sane. Until now. Mark walked into the kitchen and his eyes widened in shock. He saw Stephen’s bloodied body lying unconscious on the floor. Or dead. He ran over and knelt down by his side, placing his index and middle fingers on Stephen’s neck ; and gasped.