Life's Funny That Way

Scary Guy Writing Prompt

Writing Prompt for 11/20 – Write about the “scary guy” in your neighborhood – from his perspective:

The kids won’t even talk to me.  Quite the reverse – they run when they see me coming, or point and laugh, calling me names, if they are within a safe distance when they see me.  I usually turn to walk the other way.  I’m never going anywhere in particular anyway, it seems.  I don’t blame them.  It’s the parents.  They taught the children to fear me.  I guess I can’t blame them, either.  They are my generation, and the same generation that has forsaken me since I came back.  A couple of them were there, too, but they act like I chose this life for myself, like a chose to no longer be able to adapt to a normal life.  I am glad they do not understand what I go through from time to time.  It’s nothing a human being should have to endure.  I don’t know why sometimes the trees of the thick forest here suddenly remind me of the jungle, and a car backfiring brings me to a place where I am under fire and will surely lose the life of a friend, if not  my own.  I don’t know why I sleepwalk and sometimes wake up in the ditch alongside the road for the world to see on the morning drive to work or school.  I guess I always go back to that place.  That horrid country.  I don’t say the name anymore.  I refuse.

Mark is different, though.  He is smaller than the rest.  I guess he doesn’t have any friends, either, and one day decided to take the chance on me.  We play h-o-r-s-e together at the basketball court.  It’s not a court, really.  It is a small piece of blacktop that juts out from the side of the road, just enough to turn a car around in, and one of the older boys shimmied up a tree one day and secured an old barrel hoop up there.  The backboard was cardboard, and replaced often, until one of the kids’ dads had an extra piece of plywood that he parted with. 

Mark comes today, with a long look on his face.  I question him about it, and he sits under the shade of the trees with me on his brother’s basketball.  It is obvious he has been crying.

“Is it always that bad, Terry?” his voice is so quiet and scared that I put my arm around him and pull him closer.  He doesn’t draw away.  We are the only friends we have, as he always tells me.  I’m not sure what he means at first, but press him to continue.

“Andrew is going into the Army in two months.”  I can tell he is apprehensive about continuing.  Mark knows about some of the thing I saw and that it still affects me.  I know he doesn’t want to jeopardize our friendship by saying anything bad about me, but he doesn’t want his brother Andrew to wind up like me.  I don’t want that, either.  I don’t wish that on anyone.

“Mark, we’ve talked about how things happen for a reason, right?”

“Yessir,” tears welled in his puffy brown eyes.

“I guess the reason this happened to me is so I could have a friend like you in my life.  Andrew’s already got you in his life, right?  So, this doesn’t need to happen to him.  It’s not in God’s plan.”  It is my best attempt to make him feel better.  I don’t know any more about God’s plan than anyone else.  I wish that my life wasn’t part of his plan, but I have to believe that it is – that’s the only way I get through every day.  Andrew is the only one in Mark’s family that knows Mark hangs around with me.  I’m still not sure he likes the idea, but I’ve taught Mark to defend himself against bullies in school, and Andrew likes that, at least.

“Will it happen to him, too, Terry?”  Mark whispers.

“I hope not, Mark.  I sure hope not.”  I pause, looking for words while asking the Lord to watch over Andrew.  I feel strange again as my anger at the world resurfaces.  I hated the world at one time, and if it takes away the normal life that Mark has, I will hate it again.  “You better go now, Mark.  I’m not feeling well,” I tell him, knowing what is coming, feeling the signs.

“No sir,” I hear as the world changes around me where I sit on the ground with him.  “I’m not afraid.” 

But I am afraid.  I’m always afraid.  I can’t stop it.  I would if I could.  The drugs they gave me stopped working years ago, and I’m not going to take anymore.  There’s a reason I’m like this.  There’s a reason I must bear this weight.

I hear the machine guns and mortar exploding.  I see Johnny’s body lifted up in the air and taste blood through the mud and debris. I hear screams and orders barked.  I see a man rush at me, bayonet drawn.  I feel… I feel a small hand grasp mine.