mansion. I thought secret rooms were for crazy rich mad scientists, but my father had a room incorporated into the wall of his bedroom. I discovered it when one of our party guests was found with his head shoved through the wall. I never found out why his head was shoved through it, but it happened nonetheless.
The secret room was full of high-powered rifles. Dad was an aspiring hunter, though he was the type to buy things without enjoying the hobby. The act of collecting was the thrill. Now we’re talking 30—06's, .22 calibers, .223 Winchesters, Remington 700s, a ridiculous elephant gun, and one of those rifles you crack the double-barrels, I can’t remember the style. Going through the guns, Angel and I just start blasting everything to shit in the house. While we were doing this, Angel shoots through walls and enters rooms through these holes instead of using the actual doors. “This table’s broken,” she said one time with that evil smile of hers and shot the table's legs off. She’d send the refrigerator off the ground with one blast with the double-barreled shotgun. Angel would say, “Welp, the fridge is on the fritz again.” When she shot the front off a running dish water, it was a water works show.
Don’t get me wrong, I had a good time too. I was firing at the ceiling, and I laughed so hard when the plaster rained down on me, and Angel said I was the ghost of Christmas past. I used a 12 gauge to explode Mom’s old water bed. Then I’d start stacking up the romance paperbacks Mom left behind when she moved out. The collection was in the hundreds. We'd place the novels on random furniture and shoot them to pulpy pieces. Angel would ceremoniously read from the paperback tomes after she’d changed into a bed sheet, tying it into a toga. She’d read a paragraph out loud, the paragraph being a colorful description of a woman’s sexual organs. She’d prop the novel against something and let me take aim. “Oh profanity,” she kept saying like a Victorian housewife. “Oh posh, don’t talk about vaginas in this household. It’s rubbish. Pure foppery!” Then blammo from the shotgun.
I probably forgot to mention we were blitzed out of our minds on cocaine the whole time. Angel had a thing about what surface she snorted from. It couldn’t be a mirror, it had to be off of somebody’s skin. That was her favorite way, off a lover’s back. And she had many lovers—and I had them too, a new one every night, it seemed. I’d wake up to a new pile under the sheets who’d collect their shit the next morning and leave as if none of it had happened.
What haunts me the most is when I’d catch Angel being treated badly, and I wouldn't do anything about it. Back then, I didn’t give a shit about anything except being high. I had my supply, I knew where to get more, and I had money, connections, and Angel’s habits and the consequences were her own problem.
I caught her once in the bathroom naked. The mansion was empty after another one of our infamous parties. She was sprawled out, using the shower curtain as a blanket, but she was naked. She’d shit herself, and she had a bloo dy nose. Who knows what event happened first, the shit or the bloody nose. The saddest part, I laughed at her. A grown man looking at his sister and laughing. I thought it was funny. A normal person would’ve cleaned her up, checked if she was alive—but not me. I cooked breakfast for myself like nothing had happened. I owe Angel a thousand apologies. I only want her to be safe, happy, and to be somebody in my life.
Brock's wrist was cramping, so he forced himself to take a break. He was confused about how he was supposed to feel about cataloguing the misgiving of his life. He lowered into the couch he was resting on and closed his eyes. He had some time to take a nap before bingo
The secret room was full of high-powered rifles. Dad was an aspiring hunter, though he was the type to buy things without enjoying the hobby. The act of collecting was the thrill. Now we’re talking 30—06's, .22 calibers, .223 Winchesters, Remington 700s, a ridiculous elephant gun, and one of those rifles you crack the double-barrels, I can’t remember the style. Going through the guns, Angel and I just start blasting everything to shit in the house. While we were doing this, Angel shoots through walls and enters rooms through these holes instead of using the actual doors. “This table’s broken,” she said one time with that evil smile of hers and shot the table's legs off. She’d send the refrigerator off the ground with one blast with the double-barreled shotgun. Angel would say, “Welp, the fridge is on the fritz again.” When she shot the front off a running dish water, it was a water works show.
Don’t get me wrong, I had a good time too. I was firing at the ceiling, and I laughed so hard when the plaster rained down on me, and Angel said I was the ghost of Christmas past. I used a 12 gauge to explode Mom’s old water bed. Then I’d start stacking up the romance paperbacks Mom left behind when she moved out. The collection was in the hundreds. We'd place the novels on random furniture and shoot them to pulpy pieces. Angel would ceremoniously read from the paperback tomes after she’d changed into a bed sheet, tying it into a toga. She’d read a paragraph out loud, the paragraph being a colorful description of a woman’s sexual organs. She’d prop the novel against something and let me take aim. “Oh profanity,” she kept saying like a Victorian housewife. “Oh posh, don’t talk about vaginas in this household. It’s rubbish. Pure foppery!” Then blammo from the shotgun.
I probably forgot to mention we were blitzed out of our minds on cocaine the whole time. Angel had a thing about what surface she snorted from. It couldn’t be a mirror, it had to be off of somebody’s skin. That was her favorite way, off a lover’s back. And she had many lovers—and I had them too, a new one every night, it seemed. I’d wake up to a new pile under the sheets who’d collect their shit the next morning and leave as if none of it had happened.
What haunts me the most is when I’d catch Angel being treated badly, and I wouldn't do anything about it. Back then, I didn’t give a shit about anything except being high. I had my supply, I knew where to get more, and I had money, connections, and Angel’s habits and the consequences were her own problem.
I caught her once in the bathroom naked. The mansion was empty after another one of our infamous parties. She was sprawled out, using the shower curtain as a blanket, but she was naked. She’d shit herself, and she had a bloo dy nose. Who knows what event happened first, the shit or the bloody nose. The saddest part, I laughed at her. A grown man looking at his sister and laughing. I thought it was funny. A normal person would’ve cleaned her up, checked if she was alive—but not me. I cooked breakfast for myself like nothing had happened. I owe Angel a thousand apologies. I only want her to be safe, happy, and to be somebody in my life.
Brock's wrist was cramping, so he forced himself to take a break. He was confused about how he was supposed to feel about cataloguing the misgiving of his life. He lowered into the couch he was resting on and closed his eyes. He had some time to take a nap before bingo
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