Chapter Two: Coward

(Brian's P.O.V.)

When I saw Meg leave, I knew this was it. Meg has had enough; she's leaving and never coming back.

Her eyes said it all.

I'm a coward; I stood there and watched this entire thing happen and did nothing to stop it. I'm no different than a passerby who witnesses a mugging and doesn't attempt to help, or a follower who didn't help the victim when they needed it the most. I'm scum.

I should chase after her; these chilly winds, high crime rate, and pitch darkness is enough to make me concerned. I should tell her that she had every right to be angry at the, angry at me, and we deserve every bit of spite she has to offer. I should listen to her pain as she reminds me of all the times she's been mistreated for nothing, and offer her advice and support, make her feel important. I should tell she's the wonderful woman she is and to come home and think.

But my feet won't move.

My lips won't speak.

My body won't cooperate with my brain.

So I look at her go, her pink mass becoming nothing more than a speck and eventually darkness. She's gone, forever.

The next three weeks without Meg has been uncomfortable: Lois is snappier, Peter's jokes are no longer funny and the elephant in the room is so big it's suffocating. The focus on everyone's mind is Meg. Lois made it a rule to not talk about her but she can't stop us from thinking it.

I should say something, redeem my past role as the voice of reason, the only one with a valid conscience.

But like the douche bag I am, I quietly sip my coffee and do nothing.

I don't know what has come over me; over the past decade I've become more of a douche. I used to pride myself on doing what's right; my right-wing liberalism and Hybrid car tell others that. Where is my spine? My in-your-face righteousness that made people grow a brain cell or two has dissipated to complete…douchery.

That night, when everyone is asleep, I grab the key under the owl statue and make my way to the basement. There was the trunk I left by the washing machine, unscathed.

Looking over my shoulder, I turned on the light and locked the door. I unlocked the trunk and looked at my treasure: all of Meg's stories.

After we stole her computer, we read her stories while Meg was off working. Well, I read them; Peter and Chris didn't have the mental capacity or the patience to absorb and enjoy a good story. I told them that I wanted printed copies of every last work before Peter trashed it for a Jackass submission. It took me over one hundred dollars worth of ink but I got my money's worth. After hours of sorting, getting paper-cuts, and reading, I managed to organize every last paper into professionally finished copies. I looked at the hidden picture of Meg in one of her books and I sighed.

I'm done being a coward.

It's time I start doing what's right once again.