The Last Town

Chapter One: The Tree

Alex walks down the streets of Clarenville, nodding to the people around him as the sidewalks begin to fill with the same faces as the day before. Alex makes his way to The Dairy Mart on the corner of 5th and Williams Street to buy milk and bread with the money he earned a few hours earlier while helping his neighbor Mrs. Millford paint her living room.

He enters the store, hands in his pockets, playing with the coins in between his fingers as he walks towards the coolers. There's a look on his face, a look of sadness yet disgust. Alex grabs the quarter gallon of milk and makes his way towards the bread. Trying not to think about the walk home, he looks down at his orange stained shoes. He's had those shoes forever. He glances down at the fading outline of the word "McDolen" inscribed on the torn rubber underneath the blue stitched Nike. His dad bought those for him on his fourteenth birthday. They still fit, just a little tighter than they should be. A slight smirk comes across his face as he grabs the bread and saunters through the store.

Quietly counting the change in his head, Alex starts walking toward the register where Mr. Nelvin is counting the cigarettes for inventory. Alex places both items on the counter. "Welcome back Alex. Is everything alright today?" Mr. Nelvin asks with a strong Indian accent as he begins scanning the items for checkout.

Alex smiles. "I'm fine, just trying to get home before it gets dark," he responds.

Mr. Nelvin places each item in a bag as he reads, "Your total is $5.02".

Digging into his pockets, Alex pulls out the money and hands the cashier a ten dollar bill and goes back into his pocket for two pennies. He grabs his milk and bread and nods to Mr. Nelvin as he makes his way towards the door in a hurried fashion. Placing his change back into his pocket, Alex begins the walk home.

Still damp from the morning's rain, the streets burn orange from the reflection of the setting sun. The roads are tranquil yet tainted with the lesion of time, covered in hundreds of scattered cracks that seem to go on forever as the road bends around the post office on the corner. The steeple from the Heron Community Church towers above the town with its prominent past as the paint fades from the wooden frame. The distant sound of cars travelling down Interstate 56, muffled by the trees that seem to barely kiss the clouds. As the temperature begins to fall, Alex zips up his jacket and throws the hood over his head. Sliding his hands into his pockets, grocery bag hanging off his wrist, he starts jogging home.

Wind whistling past his ears, the occasional car drifting down the quiet street. Alex approaches his house. Its old, "seasoned" as his mother calls it. The tan colored facade of the two story home has faded to a cream over time. The dark brown shutters warping from years of weather exposure as the paint chips, exposing the bare wood underneath. There's a little tree in the front yard, once glowing with a viridescence, is now crippling naked under the harsh grasp of the coming winter. Alex nervously reaches for the handle of the dilapidated front door as the porch wails under the movement. Slowly opening the door, he sidles his way inside, cautiously closing it behind him.

Alex makes his way towards the kitchen. There are rows of cardboard boxes stacked so sporadically, yet organized throughout the house. "Dining Room Stuff" written across the front of one of the boxes in black marker. A slight relief comes over him as he opens the fridge to place the milk inside, shaking the loose bottles of condiments within it.

"What took you so long?!" a tired, baritone voice echoes from the couch.

"You could have done it yourself. At least I went." Alex responds with a scornful attitude.

His mother's boyfriend James still lay there on the couch, seemingly lifeless with the amber tinged spoon and freshly used needle on the crooked metal coffee table. He stands up slowly, reaching for the arm of the couch to catch his balance as he stumbles forward through a pile of empty beer bottles.

"Where's your mother... you piece of shit."

James stutters, struggling to find the words. Alcohol fresh on his breath, arms bruised with pin-hole sized tread marks from the frequent use of the needle that still lie on the table.

"Doesn't matter, we won't be here much longer anyway. With my mom's new job offer, we will be out of this house and away from the excuse of a man you are in no time." Alex exclaims with an affluential tone.

James snaps, aggressively tightening one hand around Alex's neck, pushing him against the smoke stained drywall. His other hand quickly glides from right to left, striking Alex in the face. James raises his hand again, clenching it into a fist. Alex covers his face, preparing for the coming pain, he cowers as close to the floor as he possible can.

"Alex, I'm home." Alex's mother says as she walks through the door.

Her voice seems to rescue him. James drops Alex quickly, stammering for an excuse as to what was happening. Blake, shocked, runs to Alex as he crawls backwards down the hallway away from his attacker.

"GET AWAY FROM HIM!" Blake screams. Straining her voice, you can hear the raspy, almost broken tone in her voice as she reaches for her son.

James, standing there motionless, suddenly snaps. He picks Blake up by her ponytail, and pushes her up against the wall. Blake, cringing from the overpowering smell of alcohol on his breath, stares straight at the floor.

"Look at me bitch!" James proclaims. Quickly forcing his other hand towards her face and pushing up on her chin. Blake, visibly shaken, finds the courage to look her abuser in the face. James smirks, lets go of her face and drops her from his overpowering clutch. He then runs both hands through his hair as he walks towards the living room, gently sits back down on the couch, and turns on the television.

Blake turns to her son, who is emotionally numb from the whole experience. Alex is sitting there, staring towards the living room, quiet. She puts her hands on both sides of Alex's face and looks him in the eyes. You can see the pain in her eyes, shaken, yet still with an almost broken glaze washing over as a single tear falls from Blake's face.

----

The muffled sound of music coming from the headphones in Alex's ears as he lays in his bed, arms crossed behind his head, tapping his feet along with the beat of the song. The look of repulsive anger still firm across his face, as he thinks about the events earlier in the night. There's a light tap at the door, Alex slowly removes one of the earbuds from his ear.

"Who is it?" Alex asks with a sense of unnerved curiosity.

"It's just me honey." Blake responds reassuringly. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright. See if you wanted to talk."

"You can come in Mom, I'm just laying in bed." Alex responds as he places the earbud on his chest. His mother walks in, mascara still smudged, but now dried and hugging the curves of her cheeks.

"We're going to put all this behind us honey. I promise. You, me, and a fresh start is just around the corner. Just hang in there one more day for me bud." Blake places her hand on Alex's leg and lightly pats it as she gets up, slowly making her way out of the room. Running her hand across the door frame as she leaves, "Alex M. Age 9. 3ft 5in" is seen briefly out of the corner of her eye. Smiling, holding back a single tear, she places her fingers on the inscribed, paint chipped facade. Flashbacks of her son growing up in this house quickly wash over her. The man asleep on the couch is not who he used to be. James used to be a good man, a good role model, and a perfect father figure for Alex ever since his dad passed away when he was 14. But now, now he's just a junkie with a short temper and plate full of excuses as to why he is the way he is. Blake runs her fingers across the frame one last time before exiting the room, wiping the tears from her eyes and shutting the door behind her.