Page 2 of Genesis

What? The pain he’s felt? What the hell is this?

“Look, motherfucker, you don’t want to do this.”

I feel his presence move away from me and hear the crunch of dirt beneath his shoes before a door squeaks open.

“Hey,” I call out, moving my hands and shoulders widely. “You piece of shit,” I seethe, moving frantically. The chair tips and I hit the hard floor, my head bouncing off the wooden floor, and then blackness consumes my mind.

Chapter Two

Danny

1998

We stare at Johnny’s house from across the road. It’s quiet and one street over from where I sleep. My heart drums to a steady beat. My palms are clammy, and my knees are shaky from what we are about to do. We’ve talked about this, late at night when everyone else was dreaming. Johnny has told me how he’s had thoughts about getting rid of his old man. We’ve fantasized about how we’d do it.

I look to Johnny for some sign of hesitation, but his focus is on the house he lives in. His jaw is locked, his eyes tight. I look back at the house. The sheer curtain cancels privacy, revealing a lamp sitting on a table near the window.

The screen door is wide open, the wind lightly tapping it against the side of the wooden house. The front steps are bent and the paint peels in curls. The houses are different on this street. They’re broken down, like the people inside of them.

The moon is bright, and the clouds are a wisp of dark aluminum, setting a portentous backdrop. The tree’s leaves in the backyard rustle when a summer breeze blows in, making the air taste like heat and choices that may save my friend and put us both away. We share a smoke I ganked from Ma after Johnny went back in and put his clothes on. It’s not the first time I’ve smoked, but I feel light-headed and I’m not sure it’s from the cigarette or the anxiousness swarming in my belly. I offer it to him, but he shakes his head.

“Let’s roll,” he says.

I nod and toss the smoke, hearing it sizzle from a puddle of rainwater left over from the thunderstorm that just came through. We look around, making sure no one sees us before we dart across the road, cutting our way across the freshly cut lawn, before we make it to the chain-link fence.

Johnny pulls the latch and we pass through the small gate. The backyard is made up of dirt and gravel with some pieces of grass sticking up. The old shed has seen better days, and the lean-to looks to be one good burst of wind from falling.

I spot the shelf of moonshine Johnny mentioned earlier. “It’ll make sense for my fingerprints to be on everything,” he says to me. “But not yours.” He walks past the shelf and grabs something from a makeshift table. “Here.”

I take the tan oil-stained gloves. “I don’t think we have to worry about fingerprints, Johnny.”

“Dude, we’ve watched enough crime shows. You can never be too careful. I don’t want to end up in juvie facing a prison sentence. Do you?”

I search his eyes, something clicking inside of me. I’ve done a lot of little crimes––stolen things and smashed car windows playing stickball in the street. I’ve broken into the school and vandalized some old buildings, but I’ve never done anything like this.

This is murder.

This is premeditated, straight-up first degree. To the world we’re kids. But right now, we’re two men deciding to take another’s life because…well…. he deserves it.

“Never get caught,” I say.

He nods. “Never get caught.”

We exchange a look right then, one that bonds us together for life. Johnny is my brother, not by blood, but where it counts. We chose each other, and brothers have each other’s backs no matter what.

I’m doing this for Johnny.

I slide the gloves on, and we each take a handful of jars and head back toward the house. The moon is hidden now, so I follow Johnny as we creep up the back porch steps. He adjusts the jars in his hands and turns the knob before we pass through the doorway. I turn and click the door back shut quietly before twisting around. I’ve never been in his house before. He’s always come to mine. I do a quick scan of dirty dishes piled in the kitchen sink. Roaches scatter at my feet, and the cabinet doors are open below the sink. Tools sit in front of it, as a continuous drip falls from the faucet above. I guess Johnny’s dad thought about fixing the leak.

Johnny doesn’t seem embarrassed by his house. In fact, he seems more confident than I’ve ever seen him. His back is straight, his shoulders squared. My best friend’s chin is lifted as he white-knuckles the jar in his clenched fist. His hair is buzzed short and the scar on his head I’ve always noticed but never asked about glows silver in the darkness.

We exit the kitchen, heading down a long hallway. There’s a bathroom to the left and I hear the sound of snoring coming up ahead.

Anxiousness fills me. I swallow as we enter the living room. Johnny’s dad is passed out in a dirty orange cloth chair. There’s a jar at his feet, its contents consumed. Worn boots sit by a tattered couch and a stack of newspapers rests by a crate used as a table that hasfragilewritten and fading away on it. A pack of Camels and a weathered Zippo lighter sit on top of it, along with an ashtray and some junk mail.

I see a photo of a woman, Johnny’s dad, and Johnny from years ago hanging crooked on the wall. That must have been his mom. I don’t ask him, though; he never talks about her. Part of me wonders if his old man beat her, too. Maybe he killed her?

“Start pouring,” Johnny whispers.

---