Carolina Drama

This short story is based on the song "Carolina Drama" by The Raconteurs. (I would recommend listening to it before you read this.) I was listening to it one day, when I was attacked by a savage plot bunny, and I thought that it would make for a good story. Please tear to pieces.

I’ve had a lot of “what if”s in my life, way more than I can count. But if I had to choose my all time biggest “what if”, the one thing that really changed my life, it would probably what if I hadn’t gone inside that day? You probably already know the story though, or at least you think you do. Most people like to pretend they were there, like they know what happened, but they weren’t, and they don’t. There were only six people there, and one of ‘ems dead. I’m not really sure if there’s even a reason to tell this story, but I’m gonna anyway, just so everyone knows what really happened, and how it all ends.

This is how it happened.

I woke up, and was for a moment, distorted to find myself looking up at the sky. Then I remembered. I was in my old truck, perfectly matching my beat-up house and dysfunctional family. I’d gone outside because I’d been in need of a break from that drunkard for a while. He wasn’t my father, but my mother was too weak and desperate to get rid of him. He was only her boyfriend, but liked to pretend he was God. We had to address him as sir, and he would often beat my brother, my mom, and I. He was almost always drunk, didn’t have a job, had no money and therefore lived off of ours, had a quick temper, and I’m almost positive he was unfaithful.

I sat up and looked around. The sun was up, but only a little bit, so I guessed it was only a little after nine. I surveyed the far too familiar disaster that was our property. A dirt driveway which became a road leading to town. My rusted Chevy. His broken-down, unidentifiable car. Long, dead grass. Our old brown house, complete with broken windows and rotting siding. Empty cans and bottles of beer. Trees surrounding the property, beginning to change color.

Fall. I should have been in school. But what grade? Was I even in grade school anymore? I must’ve since I was only sixteen and would’ve been outta there as soon I legally could’ve. I should’ve been in my second or third year of high school, unless I was some sort of genius. I doubted that. Kids without fathers aren’t geniuses. I was probably a bastard child, so my daddy probably was dumber than her current boyfriend.

But my brother was smart. Lordy, he was ten, wasn’t he? Should’ve been in fifth grade, but probably sixth since he was so smart. I didn’t care so much about my schooling; I was learned enough. But he was still little, with only a few years under his belt. And he was the one with potential, he was the one who would make it somewhere in life. He was the only exception I could think of to the dumb bastard rule. But he and I weren’t necessarily related, so that could explain it. I had my mother’s straight, red hair, but he had curly brown hair. He had our mother’s brown eyes, but everyone has brown eyes. Me on the other hand, mine were blue. No one has blue eyes, so that made me wonder.

I got up and stretched. Probably ‘bout time I head inside, I thought. I didn’t really want to though. Even though my back was stiff from unintentionally spending the night in my truck, at least I didn’t have to deal with him. To postpone any conflicts, I decided to see what my brother was up to. If that red-neck bastard hadn’t beaten all of the sense outta my brother, he was most likely outside.

I got down from the truck, my shoes crunching on broken glass. He wasn’t in the front yard, so I began to walk around back. I kicked an old beer can, bringing attention to my shoes. They were cheap and falling apart from having been worn much longer than they should have. There was glass embedded in the soles from all the glass everywhere. I surveyed the rest of my outfit. Dirty and tattered jeans, and an equally filthy t-shirt, that was supposed to be white, but had transformed into a sort of off-white/light brown color.

I needed new clothes, but all of our relief money was wasted on booze. Momma worked part time as a waitress, and I performed odd-jobs around town. Most people didn’t really need anything done, but they found things for me to do, because they felt bad for me. I was grateful, but at the same time disgraced. Luckily or unluckily, I didn’t have any friends to worry about embarrassing.

I stared at the backyard. That same untrimmed, dead grass was there, as well as a few beers cans near the house. But something was different back here. I you faced north, you couldn’t see all the shittiness of my house. You saw a field, nothing too special, but a field none the less. And trees. There were trees in the distance. I heard a bird sing, and for a fleeting moment, I forgot. I forgot my shame, my anger, my poverty, my hunger. I forgot I was only Billy, that whore’s bastard son. I felt content, and almost happy. And then it was gone.

I sighed and closed my eyes, trying desperately yet unsuccessfully to hold on to the feeling. But it was too late. The dummy was still inside, so I walked back towards the house. I approached the back door window, and I saw the scene that would forever change my life.

Technically I heard the scene before I saw it. He was carrying on about something, and I heard I furniture moving and struggling. My stomach fell like a rock. My mother was just standing there with her hands on her head. It was what she was standing so still about that really changed me. Her boyfriend was standing over someone, and at first I thought it was my brother, but then I saw that it wasn’t. It was the old priest from the town’s church. He was being choked to death, trying his hardest to fight back and get away.

I ran. I didn’t even see where I was going until my hands hit my truck. I braced myself and tried to breath. I bent over and threw up. I tried to steady my breathing and stop sobbing, but I was mostly unsuccessful. I felt sick to my stomach, and I never wanted to see anything like that again. I wanted to run away from it all, but I couldn’t. I needed to know what was going on in there, and more importantly why. I knew my mother wouldn’t do anything, and that he would most certainly kill the preacher, and I couldn’t live with myself knowing I had let that happen.

Once I was fairly composed and had gotten my courage back, I walked over to the front door. I peered in the window, only to see more of the carnage. There was blood on the floor, presumably from the preacher. He was trying so hard to fight, but he was too old, and his opponent was much stronger and clearly had more of a grudge. But then I noticed something. The preacher. He had my brother’s same curly brown hair, but my blue eyes. Not just blue eyes, but the exact same sky-blue color. Barely a whisper, I heard myself say, “That must be my daddy.”

Now I knew I couldn’t run. Even if he had left us alone, even if I had never personally met him, he was my father. And right now, he was being killed.

I searched quickly for something I could use. I grabbed the bottle of milk that was on the porch. Thank God it was after nine; otherwise it wouldn’t have been delivered yet. I took a deep breath and shoved open the door.

I almost passed out from the smell. I was a mixture of alcohol and blood, two of my least favorite things. I turned around and locked the door. I stared at her boyfriend. My mother stood in the corner, just staring at the floor. She didn’t look up, she didn’t care, she didn’t cry. She’d moved past it all, become immune. She was a ghost.

I took a step closer to the scene. The priest was lying there on the floor, half dead. I thought I saw his lips move, and I almost heard the tiniest noise come from his throat, but it was too soft, and he was interrupted.

“Get out!” shouted my mother’s boyfriend.

“Not till I know what this is all about,” I replied.

“This preacher here was attacking your mama.”

I knew he was lying. It was written all over his face. And even if he was a better liar, it still wouldn’t make any sense. He started to come towards me, and I knew I had to end it. I focused on the fat, ugly face of his. Everything he had ever done to my brother, everything he had ever done to my mama, everything he had ever done to my daddy, everything he had ever done to anyone, everything he had ever done to me has been building up inside of me. And then all that anger, all that resentment, all that rage that had been waiting for that perfect moment to be released found its niche.

It found itself inside the milk bottle, leaving my hand at full speed, heading directly for his face. He didn’t even realize I had thrown it until it hit him, and even then, I don’t know if he did. And I never will know, because it killed him. He stood for a moment, the white milk becoming red as it dripped down his face, and then he fell. I barely flinched.

I turned my attention to my real father. He was almost unconscious, trying to breath. And suddenly, a new rage developed. This was my father. He never bothered to take care of us, and hadn’t done anything for me. And now, I’d just saved his life by taking another.

“Daddy, why’d you have to come back here!?” I shouted.

Up until now, my mother had been like a statue. Now she slowly and quietly moved towards the shelf. She reached behind a few jars a pulled out an envelope, and handed it to me. It was full of money.

“Your daddy gave us this. He’s been paying all the bills for years,” she sobbed, covering her face.

“Mama, let's put this body underneath the trees and put Daddy in the truck and head to Tennessee,” I said.

But then I heard something at the back door. The doorknob turned slowly, and the door opened. It was my brother. In one hand, he had the milkman’s hat, and in the other, he had a bottle of gin. He was only ten.

I barely heard it when he began singing in his sweet voice, “La la la la, la la la la yeah, la la la la, la la la la yeah, la la la la, la la la la yeah, la la la, la la la…”

That’s my side of the story. I’m sorry, but I can’t bring myself to tell the rest. I you really want to know how it ends, then go ask the milkman.