Chapter 3

A group of young men cloistered around on a grassy yard. The sun had just set; the young men shivered as they waited in anticipation.

"He's not going to do it,"

A few of them chuckled; one of them lit a cigarette and took a long drag.

"Dickie's gonna croak," he whispered.

About twenty feet away stood a large building; the windows were busted out. Weeds had grown along the walls. Garbage was littered around…from beer cans to papers. Graffiti covered the walls.

About ten feet in front of the building…sat a sign that read "Keep Out,"

"I've got a mid-term paper to write…he'd better hurry up,"

"What class?"

"English. My teacher assigned us an essay on the Grapes of Wrath,"

The young man took another drag of his cigarette; his eyes were locked on the front door of the building.

"Its due tomorrow…I can't believe I let you guys drag me out here,"

The young man sat on the ledge of the abandoned pool. The pool was filled with garbage…broken beer bottles; papers and a couple of tires.

In his hand…was a can of spray paint. He stared at it in his hand…ever so often glancing up at the bottom of the pool.

The young man sighed…glancing around the room; it was as decrepit and decayed as the exterior of the building. The only light was a crack of moonlight that penetrated a window high up into the ceiling.

The whole room sent a chill up his spine.

He pressed the cap of the can a few times; quick sprits of paint.

He sighed…setting it down next to him…clasping his hands together in his lap.

His eyes drifted to the bottom of the pool; he fixed them on an army of ants marching out of a crack. Clods of dirt protruded from the opening.

A gust of wind beat at one of the outer doors of the complex; one of the walls creaked slightly.

The young man froze; his eyes filled with terror.

He tried to push his frightful thoughts and theories to the back of his mind.

He did his best not to make a sound.

He heard himself let out a breath; he controlled his breathing to a point that it was silent.

He slowly moved his head over his surroundings; he saw nothing.

He slowly rose to his feet…then darted for the door in the corner of his eye.

"He's coming!" shouted the young man with his cigarette.

"Did he do it?"

"Dickie…did you do it?"

Dickie shot down the grassy lawn with all the strength in his legs. By the time he reached the group…he was gasping for air and dripping in sweat. He leaned over…propping up on his knees.

"He didn't do it, did he?"

"Dickie, you're a pussy,"

"Of course I did it, you assholes!" he wheezed out through gasps.

A few of them started chuckling.

"Its after midnight…I'm gonna dip,"

The young man with the cigarette held up his hand.

"Hold on," he said. He turned to Dickie. "I want to see it."

Dickie looked him in the eyes for a couple seconds. His skin turned slightly pale.

"Uhmm…"

"Show me,"

Dickie looked down at the ground…smooshing a leaf with his foot.

"Didn't think so,"

The group of men started walking away. They all chuckled and laughed. Dickie's faced turned from embarrassed to angry in a split-second.

"I've got better things to do than fool around with you punks!"

The whole group stopped.

Dickie gulped; the young man the cigarette turned and looked Dickie straight in the eye.

The next thing he remembered…was laying on his face in the dirt.

Dickie slowly sauntered up the sidewalk next to his house. He gently lifted the latch of the chain-link fence…then placed it back down. He tip-toed up onto the back deck…and slipped inside the un-locked door.

He quietly passed through the kitchen into the den; his room was adjoining.

He didn't notice his father sitting on the couch watching a velocity game.

"Where ya been?"

Dickie froze; he slowly turned towards his father.

"Hangin out with friends,"

His father didn't take his eyes off the screen.

"It's a school night; I don't want you to leave again."

Dickie nodded quietly.

"Where'd you get that black eye?"

Dickie was quiet for a moment. He thought about what to say. He wanted to tell him the truth; but he couldn't bring himself to.

"I got into a fight,"

"Did you win?"

Dickie chewed his lip. He didn't want his father to yell at him.

"Yeah," he lied.

His father glanced up for a second.

"Good boy. There's beer in the fridge if you want one,"

Dickie nodded again. He slipped into his room.

Dickie tried to be angry; he wanted to be angry.

He hit his pillows…he played some violent music.

But eventually…he sat on the edge of his bed and broke down crying.