Fallout: Part III of The Journal Series

Chapter Five: A Not-So-Warm Welcome

November 30, 1996.

I didn't dawdle on returning home. I took care of arranging schedules with the contractors, gave 'em the keys, told them that if they fucked with my animals or what little possessions I still had in the house they'd be dead and buried in a shallow grave, and made my decision.

A part of me knew I was walking blindfolded into a mine field, but another part of me secretly, stupidly hoped for... I don't know. A happy homecoming?

That was fucking dumb, though. Completely fucking asinine.

There was the case of the mysterious "She" that I wasn't looking foward to and had to pretend I hadn't seen hide or tail of the elephant-to-be in the room. If he actually fessed up to it, that is. Actually, I was still pretty fuckin' upset about it and promised myself I'd try to keep my cool because I knew Duff felt guilty. Even as chapped as my ass was, I figured I could at least give him a chance to explain himself.

I argued with myself about bringing a gift, too. Flowers, food, my head and possibly balls on a silver platter, but decided against it. I didn't want it to seem like, "I'm the best gift you'll ever get," because even in my bullshit I knew that wasn't true simply because the last concrete date I could recall was mid-May when I'd arrived home a dopesick mess. I figured presents would be seen as asskissing in Duff's book after such a long...absence. It would do me more harm than good to show up with goodies and ask him to treat me like a fucking king I certainly was not, like he was the lucky one to have me back.

I don't know. In all honesty I didn't know how I could pull this off. Especially knowing what I did about "She."

I supposed I'd just have to go in, be honest, and keep my head.

Jesus fucking Christ, I was terrified.

Our houses weren't far apart so the drive over was only a couple minutes, but again I had that sense of dread upon seeing the entrance to the house as I pulled up. Gates to hell, just in a different way, and it was even guarded. In a corner of the front porch in a wooden chair sat a straw-stuffed scarecrow I'd bought a few years back as decoration for Thanksgiving, but his cheery, painted on grin looked more sinister than inviting.

Duff must've missed me. He hated that, "Fucking creepy ass scarecrow. It's gonna come to life and murder us one day," and bitched every year when I pestered him to put it outside. Now I knew what he meant. That fucker gave me the willies now.

I made sure to keep an eye on his shady ass while striding up to the front door...just in case.

You know how when you're really fucked up or just really dreading doing something and want to get it over with and you're walking down a hallway and it just gets longer and longer, the door shrinking farther and farther away, sending you on this unending, arduous trek? Walking to the front door was somewhat like that, but it ended all too soon, and I wound up staring at the door bell, my brows pinched and my lip captured between my teeth.

The wind was more wintry than autumnal, and it wildly blew my sagging clothes, making me shiver in the icy gusts. The nerves set in. Trepidation gnawed at my nearly-empty stomach, making me uneasy with nausea. I hopped on my toes a bit, mentally murmuring to myself, trying to psych myself up, but all I felt was something akin to emptiness, this vast, deep, cold hole within myself.