The Boy

Twenty

Boy

I woke up in a panic. I'm late! I threw the covers off my legs, and as I sat up, I realized I wasn't in my small, shabby room. I'm at Uncle Clyde's house. In the room he fixed up for me. Sleeping on a cloud of fluffiness. I scrubbed my hand over my face. I think about why I woke up already panicked. I can't remember what I was dreaming about which is odd because I always remember. Even when I don't want to.

I suddenly became aware of the smell of bacon and something sweet. I dug through my bag and grabbed a clean shirt. It was then that I realized I never took a shower last night and slept in my dirty jeans. I put the shirt back in the bag. I moved the night stand back to its original spot and walked softly to the bathroom. I locked the door, thank the heavens it had one, and then I double checked just to make sure it actually locked. The bathroom was bright with white tiles, white counter, and white cabinets. It was very clean. I opened the cabinets until I found the towels and washrags. Taking one of each out, I set them on the counter and started the shower. Once the water temperature was to my liking, I checked the lock for a third time, then stripped.

I hurried while in the shower, quickly toweling off and getting dressed. I returned the bag to my room, made the bed, and put my boots on. My room. Just sounds weird. I strained my ears for sounds as I descended the stairs. There's noise coming from the kitchen. Metal on metal. Sizzling. I rounded the corner and saw Uncle Clyde fully dressed in front of the stove cooking something in a skillet. I stood and watched for a few minutes before he turned and saw me.

"Oh, hey. Good morning, Jacob. You hungry? I made pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs. I wasn't sure what you liked, but everybody loves bacon."

He waited a moment, and I realized he was waiting for an answer. "Um, yeah. I like all those things," I replied quietly.

His smile widened, and he turned back to the stove. "Have a seat. It's just about done."

I did as he asked, sitting in the chair on the opposite side of the table from where he was cooking. He took the rest of the bacon out of the skillet, placing it on two plates I now see are already piled with pancakes and eggs. My stomach started to growl at the sight. I mentally tell it to calm down, like it can actually hear my thoughts.

I'm pulled out of my insanity when Uncle Clyde asks, "Do you like orange juice? Or do you want some milk?"

"Either is fine," I answer. I rarely ever drank anything other than water. Milk or orange juice is a rare occasion for me. Cash can't sneak it often.

He ended up setting two glasses in front of me. One orange juice. And one milk. My mouth practically watered when he set my plate down on the table. I found it somewhat difficult using my fork to cut my pancakes with my hurt hand. The bandage around it looked terrible from working in it. It could use a washing for sure. I saw Uncle Clyde watching my struggle.

"So, what happened to your hand? You drop something heavy on it or something? I've probably got another bandage you can have. That one looks like you been rolling with the pigs."

I slowly chewed my bite before answering, trying to decide what to tell him. Once I swallowed, I said, "A horse stepped on it."

He made a sound of displeasure. "Mm, bet that didn't feel too good."

"No sir. Not at all." I remembered the feeling when John brought the hammer down on it. How my heart was hammering my chest just as hard. I threw it out of my head and took another bite.

There was a few minutes of only our forks scraping around on the plates. I'd drowned my pancakes with syrup and savored the sweet taste. If I was to eat like this every day, I'd surely end up fat.