Finally, an update!
I walk home, an endless amount of thoughts taking over every crevice of my brain.
"What have I done? What have I gotten myself into?" I say to myself, and the words escape into the air, then bounce back at me.
Carefully, I massage my forehead with one hand, carrying the remainder of my items from the grocery store in the other.
I'm sticky, dirty, exhausted, and the latest member of the Cobras.
What do I tell me dad?
"Oh great, I'm getting my reputation in this town off to a great start," I tell myself sarcastically, massaging deep circles into my temples.
Who knew you could get such a headache from a trip to the grocery store?
My brain seems to be swimming in thoughts as I haul myself up the porch steps to my house.
The voices in my head get louder and louder, until I can't even hear the rustle of the trees and the occasional passing of a car.
"Good luck," one of them tells me menacingly.
"Have fun as a Cobra."
"I hope you live a happy life."
"Be careful out there. The world is a dangerous place."
Some sound genuinely concerned. Others sound like mothers, telling their children "I told you so".
Some cackle. Others grin evilly. Some pat me on the back comfortingly.
My mind is overtaken with cackles, grins, words of consolation, and sarcasm.
"Shut up!" I scream aloud, "Just shut the fuck up!"
The trees seem to rustle and contract with fear and I hear the echo.
My head pounds as I let myself fall onto the porch steps. I lean my head against the door and listen to my heavy breathing. The cool air dances smoothly across my face, making music along with the birds and the trees.
Slowly, I set the tattered bag of groceries next to me and use my now free hand to slowly lift my bloodstained sleeve. There is a stark contrast between the white of the shirt and the wine-red of the blood. I fold it back carefully, wincing from the pain.
Crusty bodily red fluid covers the area near my shoulder, creating shapes and letters, spelling out the word "cobra". A sloppily carved snake sits beneath it.
I sigh, licking my fingers to try to wipe some of the excess blood away. Again, I wince in pain and lay flat on the concrete, covering the tattoo with my sleeve.
Finally, the voices in my head have gone. I lay peacefully, letting the wind swirl in circles around me. I don't care enough to wonder how I'm going to get past my dad with a bloodstained shirt. I don't care enough to imagine how I'm going to keep the tattoo hidden from him, let alone the fact that I've joined the most badass gang in town.
My eyelids close slowly, and I begin to drift into a half-sleep. I can still faintly hear the outside noises, but my mind is in a different world.
The outside world blurs and eventually fades, and then I'm in a phase of dreaming.
The dream centers around the Cobras and fast forwards through my day, showing me clips, like a film trailer.
I watch the eggs and milk flying through the air and splattering onto the ground, creating a yellow and white mess. I watch Vern, with fear covering his face and occupying his brown eyes, gripped tightly by the head Cobra. He looks at me pleadingly, as if to beg for help.
I watch the fight. Chris, Teddy, and Gordie being thrown against brick walls. Cuts, bruises, curses.
And then I watch them run. I watch them run off, together. Into the distance. Gone
Then, I watch myself. Sweat building into beads on my forehead. A small knife approaching my left arm. A prick, not much worse that a needle at the doctor's office. And then the blood flows.
My brain slides through each image, creating a film, and it ends with another viewing of Vern. A hand holds his collar. A line of sweat sits across his forehead, just above his eyebrows. They crinkle. His eyes glaze over.
He pleads.
"No," he says, "No, I don't know you Douglas. But please, help me. Help us.
The slide show ends. Blank screen. Buzzing noise.
I wake up from my dream, dazed and confused, and take another look at the tattoo.
Already, I see the beginnings of a scar.
Immortal.
The immortal reminder of my choice as a stupid sixteen year old.