Golden Greaser

- 10 -

      "Seen anything yet?"

      "Nope."  Darrel grumbles, once again running his hands through his slicked, dark hair.

      "What's the time." I ask, gathering up my trash and shoving it into the bag with a loud crinkle. 

      Darrel flicks his wrist up quickly, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion for a spilt second. "It's already 2:30?"

      I feel my stomach drop. "Already?"

     He nods, coming to an abrupt stop behind a delivery truck. 

     "Guess I'll have to look tomorrow. I don't want you bein' late for work."

     "Please, I'm late most days. It ain't nothing new at that dump." I scoff, crossing my arms across my chest. "Can you drive me to my house for a few minutes? I need to check on my dad."

     "Yeah, what street ya' live on?"

     "Colbert. I'll show you which one when we get there." I answer, looking out the window.

     "Alright." He pauses. "You don't live to far from us, y'know. We're on Ridinger."

     "Really?" I nod. "That's only about a block away..."

     "Yeah, and if you ever need anything else our door's always open." He says, turning into the run-down neighborhood I called home. "Okay, whenever we get there, you tell me."

     I nod, feeling the shift to the uptight, responsible part of my brain that occupied my thoughts most of the time. The carefree euphoria I was feeling before proved to be short-lived.

     But that wasn't important anymore. For now, anyways. My Dad. That was important.

    "There." I say, pointing to the paled yellow house sitting crookedly on the small yard that surrounded it. "That's me."

    "Alright." Darrel says quietly, almost a mumble. "I'll be out here waiting."

   He pulls off to the empty space in front of the house, but I open the door before he even finishes parking. 

      Fumbling with the keys and shoving them into the lock, I push the door open and close it back gently. 

    The raging, rasping, breath-stealing coughs disperse the quiet of the house like they usually did, making me wince with panic. I could hear him breathing out here. 

     Oh no. No, no, no.

     "Dad?" I ask quietly, my voice shaky. "Dad, it's me."

      He groans, but I barely hear it.

     "I couldn't get a doctor. But I'll try again tomorrow." But as I turn on the lamp my heart leaps into my throat and I stumble backwards. 

    His body was heaving, sucking in whatever oxygen it could get. The sheets were soaked with sweat, clinging to his pale skin.

      There was blood everywhere. It looked like a crime scene had unfolded in his bedroom. I shouldn't have wasted time. I should have kept looking. I should have found someone. I should have--

     "Water," He rasps, grabbing my arm and squeezing it weakly. "Please."

     I quickly grab the cup of water sitting on the nightstand and spoon it into his mouth, his cracked, dry lips suddenly becoming smooth as he closed his lips around the liquid. 

   He struggles to swallow, and I'm afraid that he'll choke. So, I prop him up higher with pillows from the couch and rip the wet, bloody sheets off him and replace them with a thin blanket I had on my bed.