jahshuwah87
The top was down on my 1965 Pontiac, as I drove up the turnpike feeling the red streaks on the side of the car blazing down the side of the car. It was long since 1965 but the car had remained stylish. It wasn't out of style, or ridiculous like clothing or furniture. Driving was my life. And the sex appeal of the car distracted my mind from the idea that I was about to murder three innocent people for money.
The bricks in the wall were all evenly placed. The colors were sprayed across the spectrum of red - some were pinkish while others hit the darkest blood tones. It was this color diversity that reminded me most of my youth as I walked by the wall where as a child I would be thrown up against and forced to defend myself against the ravaging attacks of brilliant young kickball students. The red in the brick, I always thought, would cover up and be an alibi for my blood stains. It would hide my death. I would die before that wall as the firing squad of rubber balls barraged me. It was terror before lunch.
But lunch was not the end of the brick wall. The real terror was standing before that wall as I waited and watched the buses depart as my classmates would leave to their respective homes and I was left alone in despair fearing that my ignoramus father and domineering mother had forgotten me once again. Every school day ended with the same introduction of fear. The fear of being abandoned. But it was from that fear that I learned to escape. I learned that they would eventually rescue me, even if it was a half and hour or hour late. Even if it was five minutes late - it felt like two hours. Two hours to a seven year old are an eternity. And in that eternity, I became an independent. The bricks were just the beginning. The bricks were the background that led to my ultimate societal demise and provided me with the ability to no longer fear loneliness.
By the time I was eight, the bricks were no longer a prison after school. I had learned to free myself from the tyranny of mortar and brick layouts. With the new school year, I had my parents and teacher convinced that I would be catching rides on the school bus. But the school bus was just a diversion. The roar of the engines was my signal. As I heard them sound, I would pretend to walk on board but sneak between them.