This is my first time writing this, so please tell me if you want to hear any more of the story
I walked out of the boring middle school. I had hardly paid any attention to what the teachers were saying. I just heard their drawling voices. In one class I'd almost fallen asleep!I dragged my feet along the pavement, thinking this would be just another boring day like the others. I was terribly wrong. My parents were rich, yes, and I didn’t think this would affect their lives, or mine for that matter, any differently than anyone else’s. Again, I was terribly wrong. My parents and I didn’t brag about our wealth at all. We were generous to our neighbors, too. When I did finally get to my house, there were policemen and doctors in the main entrance. I had no idea what was going on, but I soon found out. A man in a long tan trench coat with big black buttons and a black hat that flopped to the side came up to me with a notepad. When I could get a better look at him, he seemed to be in his mid- forties. I then noticed that the house seemed empty; it was just filled with people that it was hard to notice. Yes, almost all the furniture was gone. Even the nice shelf that was once next to the dining room table was now gone. Then the man looked up from his hat with a very depressed face. “It grieves me to tell you young child -wait- you are the son of Mrs. Laura and Mr. Jordan Jones, Maurie, correct?” the man said. I nodded. The man continued, “Then it grieves me to tell you that your parents have been killed and robbed. The suspect is unknown.” “What?” I said. “Ugh, must I repeat myself?” The man said. “This isn’t a joke?” I asked, unsure if I wanted to know the answer. “No!” the man snapped. My mouth quivered. My eyes suddenly were stinging and wet. How dare this stranger think this is no big deal, he didn’t care, no one cared! He was a great actor; I’ll give him that. He didn’t even know if I was their son! I could feel my throat suddenly hurt, and then in even more pain, scream. My legs felt wobbly, like jell-o, but then before I could even retrieve any possession of my parents, a photograph, perhaps, I was running. Oh, but I will be back, yes, I was sure of it.
5 years later
I went back to my house after a few months to retrieve a photograph of my parents, but the whole house was knocked down and the land is now used for a park. Ha, I thought, a park! That house could’ve been given to their only child, perhaps? But, no! The land is used for a stupid park that would’ve never been there if my parents hadn’t been murdered! Now I’ve been living in the junkyard (A.K.A hobo land) by the ocean, far away from town. At first I thought I should go to an orphanage instead of this smelly, disgusting, hobo filled place, but then what if a person adopted me? I know it doesn’t seem so bad, but to me, it was. I will be the son of Laura and Jordan Jones and no one else. So, that’s what I thought when I was 13, and I’ve thought that ever since. I’m now a homeless delinquent, who doesn’t go to school, and eats with the hobos. Eats with the hobos, I thought, more like needs to find enough garbage to eat or else the hobos will steal it from me. I didn’t like anyone who lived here with me. You could never share, or else the person you are sharing with will steal the thing you’re sharing right under your nose. I found some mildewed, worn down, food stained, books over the past 5 years, and some of them are very educational. If you can read through all the muck, I thought. But one day I found a ring covered in mud. After I cleaned it up a bit, there was a small compartment shaped like a skull. I studied it, and it seemed familiar. Then I remembered that I had a book about jewelry and I’d seen this in it. Jewelry, I thought, who’d make a book about jewelry? When I got to the box that I lived in, I looked through the small library of mildewed books that I had. I got the jewelry book out and flipped until I saw a ring with a compartment in it. I read the caption. “A ring with a container under the bezel or inside the bezel itself that could be used to hold poison or another substance. They became popular in Europe during the sixteenth century. The poison ring was used either to slip poison into an enemy's food or drink, or to facilitate the suicide of the wearer in order to escape capture or torture. Known as a poison ring.” I suddenly dropped the ring, horrified of what it was used for. But curiosity took over and I opened the bezel. It had a bit of white powder left over in it which, I guessed, was poison. An evil grin appeared on my face and many thoughts came to mind. “I guess it’s time the hobos had a try in a more flavored drink,” I laughed, and then, I could not control the devilish side that had always wanted to come out.
copyright March 24, 2010 maegardens
