Free Bird

Meet the Emersons

You had lived in Santa Carla as long as you could remember. You grew up here. You knew the ins and outs of the city- as long as the sun was up that is. At the ripe age of 20, you could confidently say that you had never been to the boardwalk after dark. never. Something just didn't sit right with you about the whole place. Once the sun goes down, the town just gets... eerie.

Sitting in an old wicker chair that your mom gave you, which was placed on the wraparound porch of your small condo, the porch being one of your proud self additions to the cookie cutter home. You sipped your coffee, you had added your favorite creamer. You couldn't stand the taste of black coffee, it was far too bitter, and you just preferred the sweet warmth of a hot cup of sweet, creamy coffee as you watched the sunrise over the beach. Your condo was not too far from the beach and the boardwalk itself, giving you the perfect view of the sun rising or dipping behind the ferris wheel as the sky turned to watercolor.

The morning, though slightly chilly, was just what you needed to start your day. You were by no means a morning person, but something inside you craved the sunrise. You often gave in to that something, as you quite enjoyed watching the sun creep into the sky as you did something mundane like reading a book or doing the daily crossword puzzle on the back of the newspaper.

You sighed as you stood up from your chair. You had to do your chores before you allowed yourself to be leisurely. It had been far too long since you last did laundry, and the three day old shirt and scrappy pair of gym shorts were there to show for it. Grabbing your now empty mug, you headed inside to the kitchen to put it in the sink. you didn't;t wake up wanting to do the dishes, so you just wouldn't do them. You stalked off to your room, glancing around for your Walkman on your way. You knew where it was, but it was never there when you looked, so you were trying to get the jump on it before you made a fool of yourself shouting for it to come out of hiding.

It was in the bathroom. Why was it in the bathroom.

You shook your head and continued to your room. You picked up your laundry basket and started throwing skew clothes into it before moving to the rest of the house to do the same. You grabbed your Walkman on your way to the living room, cleaning your bathroom of dirty clothes as you did so.

When the laundry had been collected, you went to your laundry room and set the basket on top of the dryer. You threw on your headset as you checked the cassette tape that was in your Walkman. AC/DC's Back in Black album. Sweet. You popped the tape back into the player and clicked play, immediately turning the volume nearly all the way up as you started loading your laundry into the machine. Switching it on and grabbing your Walkman, you headed back to your room to see if you could scrap together something clean.

You couldn't. You were now headed to town on your blue Kawasaki KZ1000Z ELR, Remmi. As you took the backstreets inning through neighborhoods and suburbs, you noticed a new car in Old Man Emerson's driveway. Odd, you worked for him a few summers back to run into town on your bike to get stuff like formaldehyde for his taxidermy projects and such. You could've sworn he said he didn't have any family. You had left for work a little early today, you could afford to be nosy, so you pulled your bike into his driveway beside the mystery van.

You turned it off and dropped the kickstand, hopping off your bike.
"Hi Mr. Emerson. You got guests over or something?" You say apprehensively, not quite sure of the situation, and not wanting to sound rude, but you were kind of worried for the old man you affectionately named your honorary grandpa.
"Oh, Y/N, perfect timing, help Michael with those boxes over there."

Who the fuck was Michael? A boy around your age walks from behind the station wagon and introduces himself as Michael Emerson. You had to admit, he was definitely attractive, with the slight curl in his dark, shoulder length hair and those sweet, baby blue eyes. Yeah he was hot. You smiled at him and introduced yourself. You grabbed the box from his arms that was labeled "SAM'S ROOM".
"Oh, that goes upstairs," Michael tells you.
"Neato, thanks Mikey." You say before turning around to enter the house. He just watches, a lopsided smile on his face at the nickname. 'Mikey' had always been a nickname when he was growing up, so once he was a teenager, he insisted to be called Michael or Mike,but he didn't mind if it was you. He had just met you, but he could tell that he would never mind what you called him.