They sat in the livingroom.

Bertha introduced herself and her pet, Molly, who was a black winged lovebird, who had only one black wing. Her only wing. The green parrot, probably six inches, Mickey thought, was on the coffee table staring up at him. It stood there with one wing ruffled out and Mickey didn’t have to be a nature geek to know that it was getting aggressive.

The tiny livingroom smelt like lavender and something that recently died. Probably the parrot, who gave off a mean stink, who was now giving Mickey the mean eye. It stood frozen, beautiful, yet still freaky. Mickey cleared his throat in hope that the parrot would go away.
No such luck. Suddenly, Molly started squawking and… squawking. She wouldn’t stop and the loud racket bothered Mickey very much. He tried to calm the bird down, but everytime he got near it, the parrot would open her red beak wide and squawk even louder causing more stress for Mickey. A dull throb made it’s way into his head and pounded every single time the dumb creature made any noise. He looked fervishly around the room stopping at random things like books, lamps, and china glasses. What was he going to do? Whack it to death?
Just then Bertha came in the living room with a pan of cookies that she promised earlier. Her old body was going as fast as it could and she wore mittens to keep her hands protected from the heat. Serious mittens. She had on three pairs of red mittens with a little snowman embroidered on the back of them. Mickey wondered why he was even here right now. He should of left when he had the chance. He could still leave now, even.
No. Leaving would break Bertha’s heart because she obviously felt some sort of grandmotherly- grandson-ly thing going on. He hoped he didn’t get too deep in what ever hole this was. In the back of his mind he could hear his fathers voice. Taunting him.


“Such a coward. Ain’t doing anything right ‘round here.” Randall Dunn set down a beer bottle on the counter and stood there, staring at it. It was times like these that Mickey hated to most. Any beating in the world would of felt better than what he knew was going to happen next.
“You're the reason.” Randall started. “ Your the stupid reason that I’m here. Because of you, I GOT DRAGGED DOWN IN THIS DUMP!” His voice boomed in the house and Mickey could feel the thin, fragile house walls swaying, threatening to break down. Only it wasn’t the house. Randall had whispered those words. Whispered them with such ferocity that it wasn’t the houses walls, it was his walls. Mickey could feel them sway and even one glare from his father right now could break them down, shatter them and take him. Mickey’s bottom lip trembled and he prayed to God that his father did not take notice. But he did and an evil grin slipped on his father’s face. He knew. He knew Mickey was broken, and he’d only make it worse.
“She never loved you, Mickey. Never.” He took a sip from the beer bottle and threw it in the sink. It shattered and a brown substance floated into the drain. It swirled in there until it was completely gone, leaving the scene and being set free. Mickey wished he could be set free, he could go somewhere, anywhere.
That’s when his father’s fist came crashing into his jaw and the searing pain sent him crashing to the table. Gravity pulled him down and his head smacked against the corner of it. Dazed, he watched his father advance on him. Only it wasn’t his father.
It was a monster.


There was a slap and then pain registered on his cheek.
“Hello? Anybody home?!” Bertha sat down and started chuckling one of her laughs. It sounded like bells, yet older… rusty bells? She grabbed a cookie from the pan on the coffee table and motioned Mickey to have one as she continued to study him. He also realized the cursed bird was nowhere to be seen.

Awkward silence filled the room as Bertha kept staring at him. He suddenly wanted the bird back in the room. Anything to stop the weirdness happening. The old lady had the mittens in her fragile hands, wringing them out with imaginary water every so often as if she were nervous. It was when he decided to grab a cookie that she attacked.

“I can’t believe you left.”

Everything soft and kind about Bertha Carmikel suddenly vanished, making her look older and mean. She threw the mittens down and got up. The movements were not at all graceful and Mickey feared that she’d fall and break something. He got up to steady her and stopped when she glared at him. Everything was wrong and Mickey wanted to bolt. He could imagine himself stomping out of the house, slamming the door and jumping into his truck, driving away. Leaving behind this mess, leaving this old woman behind….

“Why did you leave me, Johnny? You were such a great kid.” The old lady slumped down into her seat and all the anger drained out of her, leaving behind just another old, fragile woman. “Why couldn’t you stay?” Bertha paused. It seemed like eternity before she started again. “ He was alright, sweetheart. Dennis was a real good man, he just lost his temper once in a while…”

Mickey was truly lost now, the old woman continued to say stuff about Dennis and how she got rid of him and how she was so sad that Johnny had left. Suddenly she bursted out crying.

“I’m so sorry, Johnny. I never meant for you to be hurt. I’m so sorry!”

Mickey was so confused by now. “I… uh…” Suddenly the smell of the flowers dissipated as if it never were there. The room lost all of its prettiness it had before and Mickey felt like he was caged up in a house full of depression and empty conversations. He wouldn’t be surprised if he found out that this was all the woman did now a days. Maybe he was why she was acting like this, maybe he set her off the edge. Then he decided. He had to leave and never come back. Even though he had felt a bit happy and safe here, he had to leave this mess behind. It wasn’t really his, anyways.

Mickey stood up, ignoring the woman’s pleas, and stepped outside.

He couldn’t deal with that right now. The porch creaked as he hurried off it, and he ran his hand along the railing. If he could just stay, if he didn’t have to go home, if he could be hap-

“What the!” Staring down at his hand, he looked at a large sliver of wood embedded in his palm. Red dots began to form at where the sliver entered.

“So much for happy,” Mickey grumbled as he crossed the lawn, not using the path. Flowers bent and snapped under his feet, but he kept walking. Anything to get away from this nightmare.

When the sliver comes out of his palm, Mickey washes the wound in his kitchen sink. Looking through a cabinet in the bathroom, he found no bandaids. Figures. The wound was still big and the blood dots came back once again.

When he arrived at the house, he realized he was alone. Good, he thought. I can’t deal with that anymore. Of course, he knew deep down that he had to deal with it anyways. But for now, pretending seemed to work well. Pretty soon his stomach stopped doing backflips and somersaults long enough for him to think back to the day’s events.

A crushing sigh escaped his lips and he envied that. He wished he could escape like that. Escape and not look back. Before he knew it, tears came and he wasn’t a tough guy anymore, he was just a fragile little bird. Why couldn’t he just be normal? Why couldn’t he be in a normal house, a home? Why couldn’t he live up to expectations?

At times like these, he was the worst. Anyone could tell him these things. Randall could beat him and tell him these things, other people at school could whisper these things behind his back, but those hurt far less than this. He was saying those things, and there was no way to take it all back. He knew he was a mess up, a screw up. He knew he’d never make it far in the world. All he would do was grow up to live in another shake of his own, drink beer and have a mean attitude.

He never wanted to be like Randall because he was a monster, but in a way, Mickey was like Randall. And he did not want to be a monster.

The tears never laid off, and soon he was crying again. Maybe it was his fault, all of it. Maybe what happened to his sister was his fault. Maybe his mom didn’t love him.

So Mickey Dunn curled up on an old ratty couch and cried himself to sleep, trying to figure out if he was the reason that his sister was gone and if his mother actually loved him even the slightest bit.

And he found nothing.


Soon Mickey fell asleep on the couch, and a beat up truck pulled into the driveway. Slamming the door, Randall Dunn came out and started up the driveway. The truck’s horn went off and Randall went to the passenger side door. Opening it, he helped a woman that was perfectly capable to do the deed herself. The woman wore a tube top three sizes too small and a mini skirt that looked like she stole it from the toddler’s clearance section. Her hair resembled a patchwork piece of art, red at the tips, and a black at the top. Natural blonde hair poked out at the roots. As she was oh-so-carefully guided towards Randall’s fortress, she pulled out a cigarette from her purse and lit it.

“Smokings bad for you.” Randall’s voice was the least bit concerned. He continued to escort her towards the house, as she ignored him. At least he thought she was.

“Who says?” Her lazy tone would have set him off, except for the fact that she seemed to be the only woman in the town to take interest in him. Didn’t matter that she was already drunk.

Bringing her into the house was a none-too-gentle task, and she fell over twice. Randall seemed to begin to get more and more agitated with her and he decided to give up on making the trip up the stairs to his bedroom. The couch would have to do, because finally, Randall’s got a girl. He smiled as he dragged her into the living room, but it faded as he saw who was on the couch. Any normal day he would of beat him off it, but the woman had already noticed Mickey and taken great interest in him.

“Oh, look, he’s sleeping! Such a darling.” She collapsed on the chair beside Mickey, who was still out of it, and dropped her cigarette on the carpet, falling asleep herself.

Only Randall didn’t notice that her cigarette dropped, instead, he got so red, he saw red. He would of killed The Mistake right now, but then he’d have to kill her too, or at least make her not talk, and he was already exhausted enough. Instead, he turned on his heel, and marched right out of the house. He would return tomorrow, when The Mistake was at school. Enough of him and his uselessness.

See? See what he has to put up with?
Neither the woman nor Mickey woke up as Randall sped off, or as smoke started to gather like a thick haze and as she dozed off dreaming about riches and men, Mickey slept there, too tired to dream of anything. What was the point?