I sat by the front door, staring impatiently at the doorknob.
I looked over at the wall clock. The little hand was on the 2 and the big hand was on the 10.
Clark always came home when the little hand was on the 3 and the big hand was on the 2.
"Just 20 more minutes," I told myself.
But I couldn't stop looking back at the clock every few moments to see what time it was.
It seemed like the big hand would never move.
I lay on the floor in boredom, my face pressed against the hardwood floor, waiting for him to come home.
I started to think about all the fun we would have when he arrived. He'd come through the door, and I would start to kiss his face and we would embrace each other.
He was always so excited to see me, as was I.
We'd eat pizza rolls and watch tv and old spaghetti-western films: the ones with cowboys, outlaws, gunfights, and whatnot, while I rested on his lap.
Then we would go play outside or walk in the park or feed the ducks by the creek, even though I didn't like the birds that much.
At night, we would go up to his room and get under the covers in his bed and he'd read me comic books with a flashlight. My all-time favorite was Batman.
Finally, we would fall asleep with his arm around me.
He would whisper in my ear and tell me that he loved me.
I always anticipated the next adventure and our next day with each other.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of tires screeching to a halt from outside, followed by the sound of gas and large motor. I ran to the window and peered through the blinds.
I could see Clark walking toward the front door with his head directed toward the ground. The yellow vehicle began to pull off and I could see the other people in it point and laugh as he walked to the door. Some even threw paper balls in his direction.
I became excited at the fact that Clark had finally made it home. I ran towards the door, getting ready to greet him as I always did. I heard him stick his key in and twist it around.
He slowly turned the door knob and pushed the door open.
He came in and dropped his bag on the ground.
He never stopped walking.
I moved in front of him and tried to get his attention, but he continued to walk toward the stairs with his head sagging off his shoulders.
This was very strange of Clark. The usual display of affection we so often gave to each other was not exchanged. He didn't even seem to acknowledge my presence. It was as if he didn't feel or care about anything. What was this new foreign expression on Clark's face, which he's never seemed to have before?
At least, I've never seen him like this before.
As he headed up the stairs, I could see various sticky notes attached to the back of his shirt.
Some spelled out B. I. T. C. H. and F. A. G. G. O. T. One of those notes had big red letters on the back that spelled out L.O.S.E.R.
Clark continued up the stairs, slowly and heavily. I could hear him start to sniff loudly and gasp frequently. Then he let out small sobs.
He made it to the top of the stairs and turned down the hallway.
I slowly trekked behind him.
When he got to his bedroom, he walked inside and slammed the door, leaving me outside in the hall.
It was silent.
I began to call for him when I heard the sound of objects crashing to the floor. I heard books and shoes being thrown across the room, the sound of action figures being thrown against the wall, the sound of a t.v. being flipped off of the dresser, the sound of pages being torn out of journals, and the sound of Clark crying hysterically.
I started to claw at the door and yell for him.
"Clark! Clark!" I cried.
There was more throwing. More yelling.
Then the destruction had ceased. It was silent once more.
Then I heard the jingle and clank of a belt buckle drift across the room from inside. It was followed by a computer chair rolling across the hardwood floor.
Then I heard the closet door squeak open.
"Clark!" I cried again. I began scratching at the door. "Clark!" I backed up and began to ram into the door. I did this over and over again.
My actions were futile.
I began to whimper loudly.
I lay in front of that door all night. Clark hadn't made a sound.
I just lay there and waited for him to come out.
Then I heard the front door open. "Clark... Buddy, I'm home." It was Mom.
I yelled down to her.
She came upstairs and petted me on my head. "Hey, Buddy," she said to me, "Did Clark lock you out?"
I began to whimper.
"What's wrong, boy?", she asked. She turned to Clark's room.
"Clark?" She slowly opened his door and walked inside as I followed.
She flipped on the lights.
Then she dropped her purse and let out a horrifying scream.
Written by Jcmba