Oh Mr. Radke, How I Wish I Could Hate You.
There I sat. In the little booth, sipping at my coffee-stale coffee, might I add,- staring at the chipped and cracked paint on the wall of the diner. The paint was an ugly, yellow color. It may have once been a lovely pale yellow, but over the years it turned to a pale, dirty, cream color. My nose wrinkled in disgust as the familiar aroma of vinager hit me. I turned my gaze over to the waitress who looked to be in her early 70's, late 60's. She had taken out a spray bottle filled with a transparent liquid. She was spraying down the tables. Ugh, vinager. You see, ever since I was a little girl I've hated the smell of vinager. Ever since the easter egg accident. Just reminiscing the terrible memory sends shivers down my spine.
The ring of the bell, strung on the top of the doorframe, indicated that either: a customer was leaving the musty place, or a customer was entering the musty place. Either option wouldn't make a difference to me. Nothing would make a difference anymore. Sammy is gone. And it's all my fault. I'll never see my little brother again, all because of stupid choices I made. Every little thing I do reminds me of him. I just can't seem to get away. If I was a superstitious woman I would believe it was Sammy's spirit, haunting me. But since I don't believe in such nonsense, I'll just stick with the fact that I just haven't moved on yet. But what is there to move on to? I have no friends. My family hates me. Why move on when I don't even have a bright future to look forward to?
So here I sit, in this overated, musty diner, staring at a wall, drowning in self-pity. I let out a long sigh and blink away the tears that had welled up in my eyes. I take my phone out of my old messenger bag that had once been Sammy's, and check the time. 11:46 am.
I fish through the bag once more and find what I'm looking for, after a short while. My wallet. Looking through it, I see I have a five, a ten, two ones, and a couple pennies. The check laid out on the wooden table in front of me says I owe $2.33. I take out the two ones and... twenty one cents. Great. The lady walks up to me and looks at me expectantly as if saying, "Where's my money?!"
I bite my lip nervously and say,"Would you take a ten?" The woman glares and just as she opens her mouth to show rotten, morbid teeth, a muscular hand slaps a dollar bill on the table.
"Keep the change,"he says and hands her the dollar and gives me back my change. I look up to see a man, with long black hair and sleeves of tattoos on both arms. He has a cleft on his chin and is extremely handsome. Normally, I would smile gratefully and say a bunch of 'thank you's' and 'you didn't have to's' but that was before the accident. That was before Sammy died. That was when I was happy. That was before my entire world turned upside down. Without a word to the kind stranger, I nod my head in acknowledgement that I know he's there, put the change back in my wallet, close my bag and stand up and turn to leave.
My feet take about two steps before a hand is placed on my shoulder. "What? No thank you?" I hear a masculine voice speak, a voice that could only belong to the kind, tattooed stranger.
I grit my teeth and shrug his hand off my shoulder, roughly. "Don't. Touch me." I growl. I then continue walking towards the exit, praying to God that the stranger will just leave me alone. But of course, nothing goes the way I want it to anymore.
"Hey!" The man calls. I don't turn around, but I know he's following me, because I can hear the 'thump thump thump' of his boots hitting the linoleum. I push open the door to the small diner and the cool, crisp October air hits me. The wind blows my chocolate brown locks in all different places, as I stand there looking for my old, metallic silver Volvo. I soon spot the car, but apparently not soon enough, because I feel the presence of someone behind me and I feel the hand placed on my shoulder once more. The hand grips my shoulder, firmly but gently, and turns my body around to face the tattoed stranger. I stare up at him. I'm frightened now. What if he's a rapist? Or a murderer? Or a gang member? Or a criminal? All these thoughts cross my mind as I stare up at the stranger. He waits a minute before speaking again. "What's your problem?" I open my mouth to speak but then close it. I can't tell him about my brother, he would probably jump to conclusions and think I killed him. But.. I did kill him just not..intentionally...
|Ronnie Radke||as himself|
|Jacky Vincent||as himself|
|Ryan Seaman||as himself|
|Derek Jones||as himself|
|Ron Ficarro||as himself|