She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part III)

Disclaimer

The following is one of many installments for a story designed specifically for my blog.  While it does step out of my usual genre, there are some things still not suitable for a younger audience.  Violent/Graphic descriptions, strong language and sexual situations may be found through different sections.  Each entry will tell a small portion of the story during different times and may not directly follow the one prior to it.  

This story follows the direct interactions, as well as the deteriorating thoughts of a young man who is struggling not only with the relationships he has with those around him, but with the relationship he has with himself as well.

Finally, all work is strictly fiction and does not reflect the views of the author.  Any resemblance to actual person(s) is only a coincidence.

If this isn’t your cup of tea, then avoid these excerpts and hopefully I’ll see you around my other posts!

Scott stood at the end of the driveway, holding the bag of trash over the top of the trashcan.  Unbeknownst to him, he had been standing this way for several minutes.  His eyes appeared glazed and distant, and rightfully so.  He was lost within himself, reliving the last thing to happen to him, but with his own personal twist.

He was sitting at the end of the counter, eating a plain waffle and reading one of his favorite books when Megan walked through the door.  She dropped her books on the counter next to him, laughing when his glass of milk toppled over, spilling into his lap.

“Goddamn it,” he cursed angrily as he jumped up from his seat.  “Why do you have to be such a scag?!”

She cackled mercilessly as she continued to walk around him and toward the fridge.  

“Because you’re too easy, you little twerp,” she laughed.

“That’s funny,” he muttered, “I heard the football team saying the same thing about you, in gym class.”

She half turned, just enough for him to see the smirk in her eyes, as she flipped him the bird.  It was only for a split second and she had already turned around to open the fridge door, but it had been just enough to get his blood boiling.

He dropped his half eaten waffle on the counter, closed his book and set it out of range of the spreading mess before him, then turned toward the source of all his current rage.  She was bent over before the fridge, her butt swinging back and forth as she hummed to herself.  Her head was partially in the door as she dug toward the back of the shelf where their parents stored the beer.

“Hey twerp, did you drink all the beer already?”

He didn’t answer her, however, he was already stalking her from behind.  His vision had narrowed and all rational thought had fled with each closing step that he took.  He was only a few feet behind her when she turned and saw him coming.

“W-what are you doing Scott?”

He didn’t answer with his mouth.  Before she could rise to her full height, he lifted his leg and planted a solid kick square between her cheeks.  She screamed in pain as she fell forward into the fridge and her weight dropped the shelf she had just been searching beneath her.  Condiments rolled out onto the floor, and with the exception of the pickle jar, they scattered harmlessly in all directions.  The latter shattered on the floor just below her struggling form, spilling pickles and juice at his feet.  

“Oh my god!  Scott, I’m sorry,” she cried, but he would have none of it.  

He lunged forward and grabbed the fridge door and for several seconds he simply held onto it as he held his own struggle to stay on his feet.  He had not seen the pickles and with his feet now on the slippery little discs, he found himself dancing the balance tango.

Just below his knees, Megan turned to her side and grabbed onto his pant leg as she tried to pull herself out.  He looked down then, his face stone cold, and stared into her pale, pleading face.

“Please,” she begged.  

“Sorry, sis.  I’m afraid I’m gonna have to put you on a diet.  The first step is knowing when to shut the door.”

With that he slammed the fridge door closed.  Her positioning was just right and her legs jumped from the impact. 

The right side of his mouth curled up in a vicious smile as he continued to slam the door closed.  He lost count of how many times he swung the door and he didn’t stop until his arm was tired.  By then it was over.

The angry blat of a car horn brought him back to reality and he found himself blinded by the two lights which were shining in his eyes.  The horn honked again, but by the time he thought to seek out the face of the driver, the car was past.  He hadn’t had time to recognize who had been signalling him.

“Huh,” he muttered.

It was now dark outside.  His arm was trembling from the effort of holding the trash bag above the can, but he had to forcibly will himself to open his fingers to let it go.  He frowned as he tried to rub some feeling back into his arm.  The sun had still been fairly high when he had come out here, which meant that he had been standing here for almost two hours.

“Megan,” he breathed fearfully.  Surely it just been a dream, right?  He ran back to the house, where Tippy was pawing anxiously at the kitchen door.  The moment he opened the door, she blew past him and ran out into the lawn to do her business.  He didn’t pay a seconds notice, however, as he had to see for himself.

The kitchen was as dark as the sky outside, with no lights having been turned on to chase the shadows away, and he couldn’t see more then a few feet in front of him.  With his arms stretched out in front of him, he carefully felt his way along the counter as he made his way to the fridge.

Just a few feet from the doors, and where he had imagined(?) planting the swift kick to her ass, his right foot bumped into something on the floor.  He froze, heart thudding in his chest as he listed to the unseen object roll across the floor.

“Noo,” he said, stretching the word out in that way that one does when they are trying to convince their self that something isn’t true.

He bent down and felt around for several minutes as he tried to find whatever it was that he had kicked.  It took some effort, and he grumbled unhappily the entire time he felt around, but he finally found it.  It had rolled behind him and under one of the chairs against the counter.

It didn’t take him long to figure out what he was holding, there was no mistaking its shape.  The bloated cylinder, which was fatter on the bottom and narrowed up to a hard plastic tip could be nothing other than the mustard bottle from the second shelf!

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