Misc.

boy stuck 1

It was burning hot on a summer day in July, early July, and Alan Reef was being questioned by the cops for the third time that year.

"Did you steal these?" the cop asked pulling forward the food Alan had pulled off of the concession stand at the convenience store. 

"No." Alan replied flatly. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be anywhere.

"Well the clerk behind the counter says he saw you take them."

"The clerks just some stupid old man."

"Watch your mouth, son."

"Don't talk to me like that. You're not my dad."

"You're right, your dad is dead, and your brother is frankly too soft on you, so I'm taking the responsibility to keep you in line. Now, for the last time, did you steal these items." the officer said sternly, gritting his teeth and glaring at the kid in front of him. Alan stared back at him with the same expression, his fists balled.

He knew the cop. 

His name tag read O'Neill. 

They'd encountered one another before. 

A couple of years prior, Alan had gotten into a brawl with some other guys and they'd gotten the upper hand. A police car had pulled up and pushed the guys off of Alan, who was only 15 at the time. The officer and fixed up the boy and had driven him home, telling him to stay out of trouble. So much for that. Six months later, Alan was involved in another street fight and this time around there were weapons involved. No one died, but it still put a bad label to his name. The incidents piled up over the years and he had to serve time at one point. Only for a month, but still. 

"Why do you do it." O'Neill asked, getting off of the desk, trying to stay calm.

"Do what."

"Don't play smart with me you little shit."

"Watch your mouth officer." Alan replied, getting cocky.

"Jesus Christ," O'Neill muttered under his breath. "Alright, I'm gonna ask you one more time. Did you steal these goddamn items or not."

"I-"

"Please, kid. It's 95 degrees outside and I don't wanna be here any longer than you do so-"

"You get to go home! I might not!"

"-So answer the question honestly."

Alan swallowed and slouched  in his chair. What was the point. There was none.

"Yeah. I stole them." 

---

He sat on the bench in the holding cell. It was hot and sticky and the dinky police station was too underfunded to get air conditioning. Alan's shoulders were red and they hurt, and hair was sticking to his forehead and neck. He felt gross. He wanted to go home and sleep off everything that had happened today, but he knew the day wasn't even over. He had to deal with the wrath of his older brother first. 

Wrath was over-doing it. Oscar was probably the nicest person in the slummy part of town. He helped out at the shelters when he could, and had a garden in their yard and would donate what he grew to the food bank. The angriest he'd gotten wasn't even a time involving Alan. The piano had broken and Oscar didn't have enough money to get it fixed, so he ended up screaming at the repair guy and hanging up abruptly. But, this was different. Alan, had actually committed a crime and gotten caught. He bit his nails and kept glancing up to the front desk, where his brother was signing a bunch of forms. Oscar looked back at Alan and the younger part quickly glanced away. It's not like he didn't care that he'd broken the law. He wasn't a sociopath, and he did care. He was just..bored. And it had been an impulsive decision.

Twenty minutes later, the cell opened and O'Neill let him out. As Alan passed, O'Neill told him. 

"Next time, you won't be so lucky. Keep your ass out of trouble."

Outside, he got into the old pick up truck that belonged to his brother. Oscar slammed the door shut and kept driving. He wasn't happy.

"Look, I'm sorry," Alan started. "I didn't know what I was doing, and it was impulsive, and I'm stupid and-"

"I don't wanna hear it." Oscar said, annoyed.

"Come on- I just-"

"I said I don't wanna hear it! Shut up!" 

When they got home, to their rundown bungalow, Alan made a beeline for the front door and Oscar hurried after him. They were talking about what had happened whether Alan liked it or not. He slammed the door in Oscars face and then slammed his bedroom door when he got there as well. 

"Alan open the door." Oscar asked, standing outside his brothers bedroom.

"No."

"Open the door."

"No!"

"Alan stop being a child, open the door." Oscar said, rolling his eyes.

"No!"

"Open the door! Come on!" Oscar slammed on it with his hand, his voice rising. "Open the door! Open it!" he screamed and Alan did as he asked, throwing it open and shoving his older brother. Blinded by anger and tears he started punching. If he hit something, good. That was his one objective. 

"Stop- hey- Alan-" Oscar sputtered, grabbing for his brothers wrists. Holding them tightly in a grip he looked down at his brother. "Stop." 

Tears slid down his cheeks and his chest heaved, suddenly exhausted, all the anger gone, with only a tired, sunburnt kid left to fend for himself. He hiccuped and hid his face in his brothers shoulder, walls breaking down, unveiling the vulnerable Alan. Oscar slid down the wall and held him close.

"I'm sorry." Oscar whispered, smoothing the younger boy's hair. 

"I didn't know what I was doing. It was just some stupid dare." Alan sobbed. 

"I know...I know bud." 

Alan fell asleep not long after that exchange. Oscar let him sleep and went back out into the living room, collapsing on the couch, glancing at the bills lingering by the coffee table. It wasn't that he was in debt, Oscar made sure to steer clear of that. But it was still a lot of money and he needed to support himself and his brother too. And now, he had a big ass theft fine to look after as well. His gaze drifted to the piano in the corner of the living room, taking up all the space. God, that fucking piano. He shuffled over and played a few keys, pondering. He needed to get out. He needed to leave this hell-hole. 

Suddenly something felt awful and he felt sick, like he wanted to throw up everything he'd ever eaten. Oscar needed to get out. He needed to leave and go somewhere. He wanted to burn the house down, grab Alan and run. Pay the bills, pay the fines, whatever, but then he would get into his truck and drive. Drive until they ran out of gas, or a tire went flat, or they found somewhere better to live, because the place they were in now was cruel. He wouldn't even say goodbye to Benji, and Flip and Zoe. He would just run away and never look back. He would leave the addicts and the people who beat you up at night. The dealers, the cops, the cracked pavment and the dilapitaded buildings. The loud parties that kept him up at night and his piano that was was never in tune, and it never would be. Fuck this whole place.

Fuck it.