#his grandpa had shoved his grandma into the ground and broke her arm and shoulder while drunk as shit

[tittyinfinity]

Sometimes I forget about the time I was almost killed by a sniper because of a fight between two other people

[stereotypcd]

ooc;; it’s a preview of bits and pieces for PART 2 to this HERE-

SIDENOTE: sorry about the format tumblr makes it weird, also sorry I can’t put it under a read more... stupid app -_-;; also if these mistakes plz feel free to tell me.

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re skin and bones. you must be starving let me fix you something to eat.” Mariann gritted her teeth, Nigel placed a hand atop her shoulder. As she hungrily devoured her meal, she realized it been a while since she had such a savory meal. Debbie ate a bowl of her grandma’s soup, two bowls of lucky charms and a large plate of chicken nuggets; she felt unbelievably full. It had been so long since she felt like that.

Growing up she couldn't complain about a hot meal. Despite the portions were small. Being just enough to keep the edge of hunger away, but they never made her feel full. That night when everyone was asleep ( like she should be ) she sits up, moving slowly off the bed, as to not disturb her parents. All evidence suggests Debbie isn't a heavy sleeper.

Hazel hues scanning the walls of canned food, she’d never seen so much food in her life, her mouth watered. Eyes land on canned yams, face twisting up in disgust. But Debbie learned over her short life that you couldn't be to be picky when it came starving or being full and getting to live another day. Quickly and quietly making her to the backyard, it was still weird walking around outside and being safe, living in the wild was like a playing a game of Russian roulette every day. Would you be eaten by a lion or die from dehydration or maybe heatstroke? Now she wasn't under the consent threat of death at every turn it seemed her anxiety didn't take the hint that they safe now were turned up to 100% you would have thought that it would be low.

Plopping down, the grass was slightly wet from the rain. Soaking into her pajamas. Pulling Handfuls of earth, not caring about the dirt under her nails. Burying it next to freshly planted tulips, she had to make sure she had enough food saved up in case... In case of what? Debbie wasn't even sure herself, she just knew it calmed the anxiety that ate away her. That morning Debbie ate two bowls of lucky charms. Glancing out into the yard where she had buried the yums in the garden.

——

The blonde was playing at the park with her friend, Candy, she lived next door and was the first kid Debbie ever met. Debbie was building a sandcastle, humming a tune she heard her mama sing earlier that day. Hazel hues glanced up at her friend, hearing her sounds of disgust.

”Ew, my mom packed bologna again.” Holding the sandwich at arm's length, a look of disgust painted across her face, and in one movement she throws the sandwich into the ground, dirt kicking up. Debbie's eyes widen and her heart jumps into her throat. ”Stop that, don't you, like, know it's bad t’waste food?”

”Who cares, it's gross.”

What? Did she know going hungry was bad, that it was painful and sometimes it got so bad you start crying? Didn't she? Before Debbie knew it she was standing over her, Candy was standing to now, but she looked scared. Surges of frustration pulse through her, Debbie lets out something between a mix of a sob and a yell. she pauses a dark look across her face, shoving Candy hard in the chest. She fells back into the sandbox beat of silence, then she spoke in a cracking voice. ”You- you're crazy!” Before she broke downs sobbing and running to her Mommy.

Debbie grabs the sandwich off the ground, running from the voice of her friend's mom. Hiding behind a tree hunched over on her knees, curled up in on herself, staring down at the sandwich in her hands, digging her fingers leaving small indents on the bread. it was lukewarm from sitting out in the sun. But the food was food after all. Not even bothering to pick the gravel and dirt ( and possibly bugs ) off of it before taking a huge bit, mouth dry making it a bit hard to swallow. Eyes glassy and red-rimmed, eating the rest of it in four bites, like it would be her last meal, her cheeks were wet. Debbie had ever realized she’d been.

She wasn't even hungry.

WEEKS LATER

It has rained the night before and the rain had unearthed Debbie's hiding spot, it was lucky Grandpa Frank found them and stuck them in a bag. Debbie was brushing a doll's hair when he stepped in and sat down next to her despite the protest of his joints. ”Hi, Grandpa!”

”Hey, Bug, so can I ask you something very important?”

The blonde nodded, still brushing the doll's hair. ”Have you been hiding food in the garden?” Debbie tensed, gripping the doll, knuckles bone white. She hung her head in shame. ”Please don't, like, tell Mommy and Daddy they-” She choked on a sob, eyes wide and pleading. ”Whoa, whoa! Don't worry, Debbie. ”Don't worry, you aren't in trouble, pumpkin, grandpa just wants to know.” He gave her a reassuring squeeze.

”I won't tell anyone, cross my heart.” he drew an X over his heart. ”If anyone understands it would be me, I grow up poor as dirt. ”But you don't have to worry about that stuff anymore, ” He wiped her tears. ”But if it makes you feel better, I can put a box in the shed that way you don't tear up grandma's garden. Deal?” She nodded.

——-

This had been going on for a few months now, Mama was also busy; being dragged by her grandma to this or that and Grandpa was to busy with work- so it was up to Debbie to care for her dad. Tip-toeing across the carpeted floor, a sloppily made peanut and jelly sandwich, cracking open the door of her shared bedroom. The darkness of the room swallowing her up, it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

“I made you, like, a sandwich- it’s your favorite- “ Hazel hues glance from her Daddy who’s buried under the covers, to the uneaten bowl of cereal she left them this morning. A frown crosses her lips, fingers tighten around the plate, a feeling of anger shots through her. “You gotta, like, eat, it’s not good to, like, waste food.” Her Voice trembling, with shaking hands the blonde places the plate on the nightstand.

He didn’t move. “Daddy,” She walked over to him, poking his shoulder. A small mumble left his throat but he didn’t move. She scowled, pushing him with her open palm. Still nothing. “Get up...” Debbie says irritably. “Daddy’s tired, Poppet.” Voice barely above a whisper. “Daddy! get outta bed, dad!!” Debbie hasn't been able to stop the tears. Anger crawling through her that. “GET UP, NIGEL!” Voice shaky, fists balled at her sides. “...Pl- please.” his gaze is fixed ahead, staring at the wall Debbie can barely contain her, her chest felt like it was going to burst; her eyes stung with unshed tears.

NINE MONTHS LATER

Cradling her new baby sister, the baby making babbling noises and raising out for Debbie. She was never going to let her baby sister be hungry and sad and scared like she was. ”Don't worry, Eliza I'll, like, take care of you jus’ like with Daddy.” Voice shaky. That night Debbie took the can of corn out of her backpack, she had stolen from Candy's house and buried it in the garden.

[atmaandauraofdean]

Tell me again. What do you remember? We were at Grandma and Grandpa’s… Which ones? Deanna and Samuel Campbell. Good. What happened while you were there? The house was surprising cozy and normal looking for it being owned by two never retiring hunters. There was a ranch-style feel to it- something to be expected of couple born and raised in Kansas. The room that always stuck out in Dean’s mind was the guest room that he shared with Sammy whenever they stayed over there. It was like the rest of the house with the old western feel, the touch of antiquity and grandparent style softness of it all. Every visit left Dean with a hazy, blurry feeling- even after ‘the incident.’ Safe to say, Dean- much to his embarrassment- had many a night for the following eight years where he woke up to the damp discomfort and fetid stench of piss stained sheets that could only be the result of a nightmare about a very traumatizing incident from the past. Back to the room. It had a thin yet heavy tan ranch style quilt with matching pillow cases on the pillows and the sheets were a broken in, baby soft brown. There were nightstands on either side of the bed. Along the wall next to the door to the room was a large vanity style oak dresser with a mirror just as long as Sammy, at the age of 8, was tall. There was another taller oak dresser on the wall opposite the bed that sat in a little cubby like space thanks to the closet that jutted out from the wall behind it and was closed off by two large mirrored sliding doors. On the wall above the bed, slightly off center, was a very old, very expensive painting of Jesus Christ holding a sort of amulet dangling from the hand level with his eyeline and a rosary dangling from his other hand that clutched at his robes. There was a window to the left of the painting that was lined with salt. Three large plush, mock persian rugs of the same design covered most of the visible wooden floors, under each was a devil’s trap. The wall opposite the door had squat but abundant and overflowing bookshelves with different knick knacks and toys decorating the top. This was Dean’s favorite room in all the world. Dean was haunted by a weekend that he’d spent at his grandparents home. Everyone said it was amazing he remembered the night at all since he was only two when it happened. Mommy had already died but Dean couldn’t remember it. Sammy said it was a fire in his baby brother’s nursery- which made sense since the younger Winchester had an indescribable fear of fire from before he could truly remember. Since Sammy was four years older than him, Dean was inclined to believe his big brother and trust his memory. Daddy wouldn’t talk about it, nor would he discuss the events of ‘the incident’ at his in-laws’ home. It had been late at night and two year old Dean awoke to his big brother Sammy snoring and his own wet diaper. Memaw had warned him about drinking too much before bed but he was two and he wanted his sippy cup of warm milk, like Sammy always gave him as he explained that Mommy used to do that for them. Dean was not very happy to be awake and therefore quite close to tears as he hugged his stuffed moose with a scrap of Daddy’s plaid shirt tied around its neck like a winter scarf and patted his brother’s shoulder until the giant slowly awoke with a sigh and slurred ‘what’s wrong, bud?’ It hadn’t taken the older Winchester long to figure out that his baby brother was in need of a change. As Sam swallowed a moan of frustration and cooed nonsense to his brother, he slipped out of bed and looked around the room before remembering that Memaw had given Dean a bath before bed and the diaper bag was left in the bathroom down the hall. “Can you walk, De?” Sammy croaked, turning toward his brother as he stood next to the side of the bed closest to the door, the side Dean preferred to sleep on. As Dean reached out to Sam with his moose dangling from one hand by an antler, Sam frowned ever so slightly- despite how it actually warmed his heart and turned him to a pile of useless mush. They moved down the dark hallway, Dean tucked comfortably tucked into his big brother’s arms and sucking on the pacifier he refused to give up (that John only allowed to keep his youngest calm and quiet since he was a bit more sensitive than his stubborn, thick headed eldest son), towards the bathroom with its open door and faint glow from a soft nightlight. Once Sam had his brother in a better state and in a clean diaper, he opened the door and turned back to Dean. He paused when he heard voices- angry, low toned voices hissing at one another. Dean toddled closer and hugged his big brother’s pajama clad leg, looking up at his brother with fear in his eyes. Sammy felt bad for his baby brother, but he was also about as curious as a cat with all nine lives- very. He led Dean towards the kitchen where only sage scented candles cast their dull glow to allow any sort of light. There sat who they assumed to be Deanna Campbell, their grandmother. In front of her sat two Doberman-like dogs with glowing red eyes and tribal patterns in neon blues, greens and yellows adorning their fit frames. Looking in their eyes and the way they held themselves, Sam swore the two hounds looked familiar. “Look familiar, Sammy?” The woman questioned, turning to look at him and his baby brother with a sick pleasure on her face. The voice was their grandmother’s but the eyes were cold, dead, and black as midnight when they were cast on the boys. “Who are you?” Sam warily asked, resting a hand on his brother’s head as the younger started whimper. “What the hell do you want?” “It’s not so much what I want as what Hell itself wants.” The demon controlling Deanna spoke. “And what it wants is you and your brother.” “Well good luck with that. You’re already stuck in a devil’s trap, stupid.” Sam pointed out, tensing as her pleasure faded to annoyance and malice. “Oh, don’t you worry, Daddy and Papa are gonna take good care of both of you.” She spat, pursing her lips in distaste.The two hellhounds straightened up and any familiarity they held prior to her statement and the following snap of her fingers vanished. “Shit!” Sam breathed, roughly yanking Dean into his arms and dashing towards the guest room. Dad and Papa- no, the hellhounds were hot on their heels the whole way, snarling and foaming at the mouth for taste of the children in front of them. Sam practically tossed Dean on the bed, forcing himself to ignore the toddler’s screeches of fear, and slammed the door, barricading it as best he could with the most empty but still solid and quite heavy dresser beside the closet. He went to the nightstand below the painting of Jesus and ripped the two drawers out, dumping their contents onto the bed. Sam paused for a second to slip Dean’s pacifier back into his mouth to lessen the younger’s cries- not that it did much- and began to dig through all the little pieces of jewelry, amulets, charms and tiny herb bags. Just as the hellhounds were starting to make progress on scratching and ramming through the door and dresser blocking it, the distinct sound of the front door being kicked in sounded through house and reverberated through the structure. Sam looked up as the sound of the snarls retreated and a familiar voice was heard shouting near the front door. There was only one person that voice could belong to. “Get outta her, you black eyed bitch!” Bobby Singer’s voice roared through the house. Sam sighed in relief as he found the amulet he was looking for. It was the amulet of Christ, the one from the painting- the painting done by Jesus’ very first disciple. He clutched it in his fist and carelessly shoved the dresser back in its nook. Then, he took Dean in his arms and ran out the kitchen where their Uncle Bobby had barely managed to tie down their possessed Memaw and was wrestling with the two hellhounds, one of which he proceeded to shoot with a specially made bullet that was filled with holy water and made from melted down demon blades, which they had collected off the bodies that had formerly been inhabited by various demons. The hellhound collapsed to the floor and morphed back into Samuel Campbell, their beloved Papa, who began to sputter and cough up blood as the wound in his chest bled out. “Uncle Bobby! Stop!” Sam shouted as Dean wailed in his ear and the bitch inhabiting their Memaw cackled gleefully. “That’s Dad!” “For fuck’s sake, Sammy! Get back in the goddamn bedroom with your brother!” Bobby shouted, grunted as he used his shotgun to hold the remaining hellhound off. “DON’T SHOOT HIM!” Sam hollered once more, freezing as the hellhound turned its attention towards him and his screaming baby brother, staring long and hard at the amulet dangling from the older’s hand, after being thrown back by their uncle. “RUN GODDAMMIT!” Bobby bellowed, reloading despite Sam’s argument. The elder Winchester booked it out the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. The hellhound that was formerly their father growled and snapped as it lurched forward in attempt to nab one of the brothers- flinching away from the amulet when Sam used his free hand to hold out behind him to protect himself. He scrambled up to the top of the slide connected to the swing set and perched on the topmost support beam with Dean hugged to his chest. He said a prayer under his breath and swallowed his own panic as he wiped his baby brother’s face with the sleeve of his pajama top. Over the barking and snarling of the mad hound that so far seemed incapable of climbing up to get them, they heard screams of pure agony from inside. Uncle Bobby had to be exorcising the Demon. His gruff deep voice could barely be made out over all the other sounds that broke through the once peaceful midsummer night. After what felt like an eternity, the screams stopped and the hellhound became utterly docile and calmed until it laid on the ground in show of submission. Their uncle came out to fetch them, warily eyeing the former John Winchester as the patterns on his fur glowed softer than before. Once they were sat down in the kitchen, across the table from their dead Memaw and beside their dead Papa on the floor, with Sam in a chair across from Bobby who held a sniffling and clingy Dean in his lap while the John-hound lay quietly at their feet. Once Dean was sufficiently calmed, Bobby cleared his throat and stopped as Dean whined in distress when the John-hound nudged his foot with his cold, wet nose, who was rewarded with a good kick to the snout for his efforts to comfort his son. “He ain’t gonna hurt ya no more, Duckie.” Bobby soothed, bouncing the toddler on his knee and kissing his forehead. “And if he tries, I’ll shoot ‘im.” “Uncle Bobby?” Sammy hesitantly prompted, hugging his knees to his chest. “Yer Daddy will be just fine. Just a spell. He’ll back to ‘is old self in a couple days.” Bobby responded, wiping a few tears from Dean’s chubby cheeks. “Me an’ the fellas looked into all this before I got here. Had a feelin’ them black eyed bastards had somethin’ in mind. Didn’t hurt that a similar incident happened about a month ago.” “So he’s just gonna be dog for awhile?” Sam asked, an uncertain look on his face as he eyed his morphed father. “There’s no safe way to turn ‘im back far as I know.” Bobby affirmed, looking down at his fellow hunter and friend with a huffed sigh. “Ya sure know how to get into some messed up shit, ya idjit…” The John-hound whined and huffed. “Yeah, yeah, quit yer bitchin’.” Bobby teased. “Ya think you and yer brother’ll be able to get back to sleep?” Sam shook his head as Dean fussed and rubbed at his eyes. “Didn’t think so. We’ll call the authorities and say it was a home invasion. That way no one will go snoopin’ or come lookin’ for no one.” Bobby voiced, grabbing the landline and dialing 911. “After that, we’ll head back to my place and wait things out till yer Dad’s back to normal.” From there it played out just as Bobby Singer had promised it would. The authorities accepted the story of the home invasion and Bobby’s heroic arrival- claiming he had been coming over to pick up the kids for some bonding time but arriving late due to car trouble (the mechanic cringed at that particular part of the lie). They then headed back to Bobby’s with Sam and Dean dozing and cuddled up in the backseat while the John-hound sulked in the front passenger seat, curled up into a ball, occasionally huffing, whining or softly yipping in response to whatever Bobby said. A few weeks later, the Campbell property and all its contents were sold off to one Robert Singer since none of the designated recipients of that part of the estate were still alive to claim them. The shabby but impressive for a hunter savings was put aside for the brothers whenever they came of age. No one knew that Bobby had purchased and deep cleaned the property to one day hand over to the brothers if either ever managed to retire. You have excellent recall for being so young when it all happened. I didn’t want to forget so I had Sammy and Bobby re-tell it over the years. We do it once a year on the day that Deanna and Samuel Campbell died. Why would you want to remember such a horrible night? Wouldn’t you rather have them remind you of all the other visits where you were simply a toddler playing at his Memaw and Papa’s? No. That’s not who I was, who any of them were. Interesting… What? When your brother recalls that date, it’s a very different story. What do you mean? We’ll get to that in just a moment. First, do you remember what I had you recite when we first started? Yeah? Say it for me one more time. My name is Dean Winchester. I am the son of Mary Campbell and John Winchester. My older brother is Sam Winchester. I was born on May 2nd, 1983. My grandparents died as result of a plot by demons and a family friend and fellow hunter’s attempt to save them and us. I am a hunter of the supernatural and vessel of the archangel Michael. I am told to be the Righteous Man. The way your brother tells it quite different in some aspects. Like what? You are the older brother to Sam Winchester. You were not born on May 2nd, 1983 because that is your brother’s birthday. Your birthday is January 24th, 1979. You never met your grandparents and neither did he because they died the night your mother eloped with your father and were allegedly left vulnerable to the yellow eyed demon that your brother names as Azazel. He states that the entire incident you have recited to me never occurred. So which one of you truly remembers? Are you who you say you are? I… I am Dean Winchester… and I… You what? I remember…?

[narcissablvxk-blog]

Days of darkness and doom. Nights that are cold and lonely. A love that keeps her warm even during those times.

The future is a looming ghost over  her shoulder, and when it comes,  the haunting will still be far from  over.

Lucius wasn’t around, and the quiet was eerie. It sent chills through her bones like the air outside. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she thought, looking over at the empty side of their bed that was suffocatingly large on nights like this. He was supposed to be there because she couldn’t sleep without him anymore. Not knowing the things he was facing. It was a welcome sound that broke the silence when she heard Draco crying in his room. In a millisecond Narcissa was out of bed. She shrugged a robe over her shoulders, tying it around herself as she made her way to her son’s room.

Dobby had beat her there, and he looked down as she approached the door.

“Mistress Malfoy I wasn’t sure if you were coming I’m sorry I’m s-”

“I am a good mother you stupid elf. I don’t need you to raise my child.” He looked down again.

“Sorry I’m s-sorr-” but she shut Draco’s door in his face before he could finish blubbering.

“Mummy’s here my Darling,” she said in her softest voice. “I’m here, it’s okay Love.” Draco still cried and she didn’t mind a bit as she scooped his small form up in her arms. “There there my dearest Draco. It’s okay, Mummy’s here. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Pressing her lips against his forehead, she made gentle shushing noises as she did so. Taking a seat in a rocking chair, Narcissa hummed quietly. She looked down at the shock of white hair against Draco’s pale skin and a smile rested upon her lips.

“Mummy loves you, Daddy loves you, Uncle Rod loves you, Aunt Bella loves you, Uncle Amycus loves you, Aunt Alecto loves you, Uncle Evan loves you, Grandma and Grandpa love you, Grandmother and Grandfather love you,” she repeated the list over and over, long after he’d stopped crying, still even when he’d fallen asleep. She whispered the words into the cool night air, as if daring the world to try taking a boy who was so loved away from her. Let them try, she thought to herself, looking down at her son. Let them try to touch him, I’ll shred them limb from limb. Because she had never loved anyone like she loved Draco. A love so entirely independent of herself that she almost didn’t understand it. How could she love someone so much, when they offered nothing in return? Even Bella at least loved her back. Draco could hate her and she would still love him.

But he wouldn’t hate her, he loved her, he smiled for her and stayed quiet for her and laughed for her and clapped his hands for her when she asked him to. They were each other’s world, especially on nights like this. There were many nights like this, and she didn’t mind. She knew what she signed up for when she accidentally started loving Lucius, and she didn’t mind that lonely nights with her son was a part of the deal.

Her arms were numb and the sun was on its way back up when she heard Dobby rush to open the door. She quickly placed Draco back in his crib and popped back into their bedroom. The robe hung itself back up and she acted as though she’d been asleep all night when Lucius came into the room.

“Morning Darling,” she said, stretching out her arms. “Have you been home long?”

He fell into bed next to her and shook his head. He said he just got back, he apologized for waking her up, she said it was okay and that he should rest - she’d make him tea when he woke up. He promised to be home that night, promised he wouldn’t go anywhere and she nodded. Kissed his forehead.

“Just get some rest, Luc. I love you I love you I love you,” Narcissa told him, kissing him after each time. Just try, she challenged the world again as she ran a thumb against his cheek. Try to take him away and you’ll see the iron I’m made of.

She heard Amycus ask if she was okay. Narcissa was stumbling towards the front door, trying not to think of what had happened. Trying to forget the flashing lights and the ambush by people she recognized from school who thought they were fighting the good fight.

“Of course I’m okay why wouldn’t I be okay I’m always okay I have to be okay I’m completely okay.”

He told her she didn’t seem okay and she shook her head as the front door opened for her and she rushed to the bathroom, watching the clear water turn red as it ran over her hands.

“I’m okay they were going to hurt you I didn’t have a choice I’m okay because you’re okay - you have Draco right? Okay great, I can’t believe they tried to attack us when I had my son with me, I can’t believe this but yes I’m okay.” She shoved her hands in her coat pockets to hide the fact that they were shaking and she didn’t want to face him because she wasn’t supposed to have crossed that line, not ever but now she had and she didn’t even think she could look her own reflection, how could anyone else?

“We’ve all done worse, Narcissa it’s okay,” he said and she shrugged.

“Oh I know, that’s why it’s okay, don’t worry, I’ll be right in the other room.” Narcissa went into the kitchen, gripped the counter tightly, trying not to think of all of the people she’d had laying there, the people she had to fix. She wondered if anyone could fix the person they left in the street before realizing she hoped he wasn’t saved.

She took a deep breath and told Dobby to make some tea, pasting a smile back on her face as she went back into the drawing room.

“We’re all okay so of course I’m okay, let’s sit. Dobby is making some tea so please sit down Am, I’ll take Draco and get him into some pajamas, let’s go Darling follow Mummy and it’ll be okay.” She held onto Draco’s hand as he made wobbly steps, following her to his room where he looked at her.

“Okay Mummy?” He mumbled and she laughed as a tear rolled down her cheek.

“I am if you are,” she said as she knelt on the ground to be closer to him. She hugged him tightly, pulled her wand out and tapped it to his head, watching as a small silver strand followed the tip of her wand and disappeared. “There we go my Darling,” Narcissa told him, kissing his forehead. “All better now. Just remember that those people are not heroes, they aren’t even though they try saying they are.” She kissed his forehead again before wiping the pink lipstick off of his skin. “They’re just as bad as they say we are. But we’ll be alright. You’re always going to be alright. Mummy loves you, okay? Don’t ever forget that.” Because she was reminded that life was fragile no matter how invincible you pretended to be. He hugged her back with his tiny arms and another tear rolled down her cheek. “Yes, Dearest, Mummy loves you very much.”

The look on Rodolphus’ face was not one she wanted to see. Not at all. Because she knew what had happened, she saw it in the news. Frank and Alice Longbottom, tortured into insanity. Names were being thrown around, suspects that she dined with every Saturday, people who she fell asleep on as she waited for the others to come back from those god awful missions, friends whose wives shared tea and biscuits with her. But worst of all - family. Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, Rabastan as well. And they’d done it, they were the ones who had done it. They stood there, minutes after she’d taken a picture of he and Draco and he had a hand on her shoulder.

“You’ll pull through it Rod,” she told him, desperately trying to believe her own words. “You always do this is nothing different than the other accusations it’s going to be okay.” Please let it be okay.

“This is different, Cissa. We aren’t getting out of this one. We’re going to Azkaban.”

“No, no you can’t. This can’t happen. They can’t take you two away from me I won’t let them.”

“You have a family to take care of Narcissa, this fight is too big and neither of us want you to risk your own reputation because of this. Please don’t fight this.”

“You’re asking me to give up, Rod. I can’t give up on you, I can’t quit on Bella.”

“I’m not asking you to give up I’m asking for you to sit this one out. We aren’t going to get out of it, no matter what strings you pull this one was just too much, we bit off more than we could chew.” He looked down and she shook her head.

“When will you get out?” She asked, her voice broken and unrecognizable when compared to her normal powerful tone. He shrugged and she lifted his chin up, placing a hand on either side of his face as her chin quivered at the thought of losing two of the few people she loved. “I’ll come visit you,” she whispered, looking into his eyes and knowing that wasn’t allowed. “I’ll tell Draco how amazing you are and how much you love him, you’ll be free eventually.”

She didn’t allow herself to think about the Dementors and what they could do to them.

“I just thought you should hear it from me. We’re going to trial tomorrow, and we aren’t coming back.”

Finally a gasp of a sob that she quickly stifled.

“Okay, okay, it’s alright, you’re going to be fine, okay? You and Bella and Rabastan, you’ll all be fine. It’ll be okay, you’ll be out before you know it.” Because it had to be okay because they had to be alright and they had to be out. She pulled him into a hug abruptly and he hugged her back after a moment of hesitation. “I love you Rodolphus,” she whispered, holding him tightly. “Draco is going to know how amazing you are, I’ll-I’ll tell everyone about your heart and nothing else because your heart is pure and true.”

Then she stepped back and sniffled, dabbing beneath her eyes. “A few more pictures then, shall we?” 

What could he do but nod?

“My Light,

It’s lonely in this house. My feet make echoing noises against the walls when I walk around. Draco is still at school, but he’s doing well. He’s doing great actually, our little boy has grown quite tall and despite all the time I’ve seen pass and the moments I’ve spent with him, it never ceases to surprise me when I see him with my own eyes.

He misses you but he can see that I do too, and he’s so so strong for me. He shouldn’t have to be strong for me, I’m supposed to be the strong one. But you were the one who was strong, all I ever did was pretend to be, I guess. Or maybe that’s wrong, maybe you were my strength. Whatever the answer, I feel so weak now. I’m sorry I can’t be strong for our boy.

Do not blame yourself for the things he is doing. I’ve done what I can to protect him, I promise. He is trying to say it’s punishment but it’s not. He would have made him do this no matter what happened that night. When you get out, do not blame yourself.

I’m thankful Bella is here, the floor is cold on my feet but she makes everything a little warmer. Still, I do not do well with sleeping alone and even when I do join her, we sleep apart. We will be having Christmas, and I wish you could be there with us. Even if you are not, you will be in my heart and in that way you will be there. You are always in my heart, Lucius. It’s the only way I can cope with being alone. Our portrait is quiet too. But you’re still there to look at and that makes things okay.

This house is too big without you, and the worst part is not knowing when I will see you again. You’ve been here all my life, even when you came back late, or left early you have been here for my entire life and I love you. I love you I love you I love you and I’ve never taken you for granted - not once - but this has shown me how much of me depends on you. Perhaps it isn’t right, maybe this isn’t supposed to have worked out like it did but the unfortunate truth is that you are the other half of my soul.

For the first time since I’ve fallen in love with you, I hope you do not love me to this caliber because it is a pain I wouldn’t wish upon anyone.

My husband, you are my light and what keeps me strong, I only hope you can feel me there with you because my soul is with you. (Now I am empty). We will be together again, until then I will love you and hold you in my thoughts until I can hold you in my arms.

I will see you soon.

-Your Daffodil”

Narcissa finished the letter, sprayed her perfume on it and folded it neatly. Then she stood in front of their fireplace and dropped the letter into the flames, which engulfed it quickly. After loads of letters which received no reply, she realized no hope for a response meant no disappointment when it never came. So she let her words burn and turn into smoke that disappeared.

It was better that it disappeared anyway.

[jamesthomaslynde-blog]

THE DEMANDS OF JUSTICE, HONOR, AND REPUTATION ARE DEEPLY BOUND UP WITH DUTY

Sunday morning, and we were not—as we usually were on Sundays—on our way to church. Thank the Lord! Mom told us a bit about Memorial Day and finished up with, “As you say it you have to make the quote signs with your fingers: ‘Going to honor the dead.’”

We piled into “Old Betsy”—the family car, a dark green station wagon with wood paneling stickers that run down both sides. First we had to go pick up Grandpa John. He lived in Syracuse on Prospect Avenue, a block from St. Joseph’s Hospital, and his apartment complex was half way up the hill the ambulances took to get to the emergency bays.

My Dad puts the car in park and jumps out to go in and get grandpa. I keep watch out the back passenger window. The day is bright and sunny, the kind that makes you squint.

Grandpa John is not very steady on his feet and walks with a cane. He’s in a tan suit with white shirt and a black tie with white polka dots. The suit is baggy. He looks like a kid dressed in his dad’s suit.

From my adult viewing point, I can see that what Grandpa needed was a skeleton-size suit. He was French, and small in stature with a black mustache and slicked-back black hair—like something out of the 1930s. My Dad sometimes joked that ‘the old man’ used black shoe polish on his hair. I didn’t know if that was true or not, but every time Dad said it I chuckled.

I watch every move as they come down the steps. The old man moves slowly but steadily, as if his shoes are weighted. When Dad pulls the back passenger door open he says, “Jim, move over and make room for your grandfather.”

I jump toward the middle and bump into Reggie, and this of course starts a shoving match and my Dad yells at us to stop. We are quick then to take our positions: legs straight ahead, hands at our sides. My grandfather has his back to the car and my Dad lowers him ever so carefully onto the seat and swings his legs inside.

My Mom glances back and says, “Hello, Dad.”

It’s a little bit of a drive. Actually, it takes forever. Reggie and I ask again and again: “Are we there yet?” The answer is always the same. “We’ll be there soon—now settle down!” Finally I spot the sign: Chase Cemetery.

We have come to Baldwinsville, New York—but the cemetery is out in the middle of nowhere. My grandfather is from Phoenix, New York, in the same area. I may not have known the term, but I would soon learn that my grandfather was an alcoholic.  

The car winds slowly along a narrow path and at last we reach the right spot. Whew! What a relief to be out of the car! Mom carries Stephen on her hip, as usual. We’re in an open area so Reggie and I start running, but of course our Dad yells for us to stop. He goes down on one knee so he can look us in the eye. “You’re in a cemetery, boys. You need to be respectful of the dead.”

Reggie and I—in unison—say we are sorry. The adults lead the way and we follow behind. My grandfather walks with his cane, very slowly, with my father at his side. As my mom passes by one of the tombstones she throws out an arm and says, “Jimmy, this is where your great-grandfather Thomas is buried. I liked him very much. Your middle name is Thomas—you’re named after him.”  

My jaw drops open. I’ve never given a thought to my middle name. I do know that my first name is the same as my uncle’s and his middle name is William.

I stand by the tombstone wondering about this great-grandfather. What was he like? Where had he lived? What did he do? And what is it like down there, under the ground, in the dark?

Everything is real quiet. Somewhere nearby, a bird chirps. A bird flies from the top of one of the trees and swoops down, spreading its wings wide. It lands on a branch close to me. The quiet feels eerie. Where is everybody?

I swivel around and spot my dad. He’s helping my grandfather to kneel in front of a small tombstone. I hurry over in a fast walk. Before I even get to his side I can see that my grandfather is crying. He wipes his face with his white handkerchief, tucks it in his front right pocket and clasps his hands together like he’s praying. Tears start streaming down his face. This startles me, because I’ve never thought of him as religious and never heard him talk to or about God—but this cemetery visit has changed my grandfather. I can’t figure it out.

I step forward and read the tombstone: Donna – 1939 to 1941. My mother’s sister.

My mother had mentioned her sister. Older sister. She died very young, from a fever. Mom told me this one afternoon when she pulled a picture from her closet. And when I stayed overnight at my grandmother’s, I discovered a baby’s shoes coated in bronze and attached to a piece of stained wood.

Even today I wonder, was grandfather praying? Was he talking to God? Was he talking to Donna? Was he remembering the day they filled a tub full of ice water in hopes of bringing the two-year-old child’s fever down? The frantic need to save his child—was that what broke my grandfather? He and my grandmother divorced. Mom said they divorced because my grandfather drank too much and cheated on grandmother. The way Mom told it, there was more than one occasion when a man came to the house all pissed off because apparently my grandfather had slept with his wife, and my grandmother would let the man in. But Grandfather was such a smooth talker that after about a twenty-minute standoff, the complainer would be enjoying a beer and telling a joke or talking about sports.

In the cemetery I am mesmerized by my grandfather’s emotional state—unlike anything I have ever seen in him. And then I notice my Mom. She stands behind him with her head down, looking sad, but I can’t understand the look on her face. Much later I will understand that it was like the required look you see on faces of people entering a funeral home or a graveside service.

My Mom just stands, not saying a word—and then she turns and heads for the car. Right away my Dad leans to my grandfather and begins helping him get to his feet.

I hurry over to my Mom. I want to know why her sister is buried all the way out here. She seems preoccupied and gazes straight ahead, but she answers me. “Your Grandpa and Grandma didn’t have much money when my sister died, so my grandfather—Thomas—he gave them the plot, the place to bury her.”

On the way back, Reggie and I ride in the back luggage area of the station wagon. This is a treat. Always before Stephen has ridden up front but now he’s the one in the back seat with Grandpa.

Back at Grandpa John’s, my Dad parks the car in the lot at the side of the building and Mom begins gathering up her bundle. She has clean sheets for Grandfather’s bed and will clean his apartment. He lives on the first floor halfway down the hallway on the right. We all stand outside the dingy door, a dirty white door that looks like it’s been painted 400 times. My grandfather fishes in his pocket for the key, and my Dad opens the door. I notice the bunch of scratches around the keyhole—scratches my grandfather makes because his hands are so shaky.

Reggie and I sit on the couch on the far wall under the only window in the apartment. My Mom drops Stephen on the couch next to us. My Dad heads to the bathroom to get the shaving cream and razor, which he carries to the kitchen table in the middle of the room. My Mom strips the sheets off the bed and begins putting on the clean sheets.

My Dad has just lathered up my grandfather and turned to pick up the razor when he says, “Maybe I should slit your throat with this razor and put you out of your misery.” My grandfather jokes back. “Sure, go ahead if it makes you happy.”

But I notice how Grandpa keeps very still, makes no sudden move. He catches me looking his way and gives me a wink.

When we are ready to leave, Grandpa John is sitting on his bed and Mom has hold of the bag of dirty clothes. He has a glass of milk on a kitchen chair against the wall by the door. When you look down into the milk you can see yellow spots floating in it. My Dad asks him if he has enough whiskey in his milk. Grandpa says he thinks so but he can’t taste it—then smacks his lips together. This is the usual routine when we are leaving. My Dad laughs and we walk out the door.

 Then comes the Sunday when my Mom goes again to clean Grandpa John’s one-room shit hole, and like always Reggie and I go along, but this particular Sunday we get a little surprise. There’s a woman sitting at the table in the middle of the room. She’s smoking a cigarette. She’s a lot younger than my grandfather but she looks like she’s had a hard life. “Been rode hard and put away wet’—as I have heard my father describe women like her and that’s the phrase that fit her, but I wouldn’t understand that one till a few years later.

My grandfather speaks from his bed. “This is Sally, a good friend of mine.” My Mom says hello and Sally gets up, saying it’s time she got going, and she leaves.

The whole time my Mom is making his bed she bitches at my grandfather. When she’s not looking, he glances at us and shrugs his shoulders and puts his hands out—like he’s saying he doesn’t understand what she’s talking about. The motion seems to say, ‘Oh well,’ and it comes with a wink.

His manner would have made him a fitting candidate for poster child for Take it easy. Besides the alcohol, he took a bunch of medications. The top of the television set was always crowded with pill bottles.

At Christmas time he pulled out his Santa figurine. When you pushed Santa’s head down, his dick popped up from under his red felt kilt. Reggie and I loved to slap the head down and laugh our fucking asses off, but Mom reprimanded us and made us sit on the couch and be quiet.

Finally, she is ready to leave. “Goodbye, Dad. See you next week.” But she does not hurry out. She tarries. She asks about Sally.

He says, “She’s really my new girlfriend. She thinks I’m handsome.”

My mother slaps her knee and throws her head back and hoots with laughter. This she follows with, “What the hell does that woman see in you?”

He says, “You forget that your father was quite a ladies’ man.” He nods his head and glances around, as if to proclaim his manhood.

She shakes her head side to side. In a voice close to a moan she says, “Oh dear, and how could I forget? Well… goodbye, Dad.”

He is sitting up in bed. He makes no answer except to shrug his shoulders and tilt his head to one side as if to say he’s pretty impressed with himself.

When the door closes behind us, we enter upon the worst part of these Sunday visits. We start down the hallway and Mom tells us to take the garbage bag to the basement.

As usual, we plead. We don’t want to go down there. “There are rats, Mom!”  

She dismisses what we say. “Nonsense! The rats are more afraid of you than you are of them.”  

I insist. “But they’re as big as dogs!”

“Take the trash down. I’ll be in the car waiting, so don’t take too long.”

We get the door open and turn on the basement light. At the bottom of the stairs there will be broken trash bags. The stairs half way down the stairs will be slippery. My Mom has warned us repeatedly that if we just throw the trash down the stairs our grandfather will get thrown out of his apartment and have no place to live.

We hold our breath and start down. The smell is horrible. We can hear the rats running behind the trash cans lined against the walls. Their nails click on the cement floor where there are rat-shit droppings. We put the trash in the can with my grandfather’s apartment number spray painted on the side then run back up the stairs. I wanted to check one of the other trash cans to see if other people threw their trash in their cans, but I was too afraid to open the lid. A huge rat might come jumping out and bite me on the neck. Blood would squirt everyway and my brother would scream at the top of his lungs and shit his pants. He would have to tell me later that he shit his pants—because I was sure I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference with the awful smells already down there in that basement.

We get to the car and get the usual interrogation. My Mom is waiting with the car running. Did we put the trash in the trashcan and not on the floor? In unison we answer, “Yes, Mom!”  

 My Mom’s dad was on welfare and received food stamps. He sold the stamps at a discounted rate to people in the apartment complex, and that way he had money to purchase alcohol. He had a change jar on the TV stand.

One day my Mom had an errand to run and there was no one available to watch us. She decided to stop at Grandpa’s. He was always there. But reliable? You be the judge.

She tells him she will be right back; he says that’s fine. Reggie and I sit there on the couch. The TV does not work very well and there aren’t any toys to play with, so we decide to sweep the apartment. I can see that it sure needs a sweeping. I grab the broom and work toward the middle. My grandfather asks me to give the broom to Reggie so he can have a turn because the little brother was complaining that he didn’t have a broom. When Reggie is done with his area, I get the dustpan and Reggie sweeps the dirt into it while I hold it. I go to the garbage can and dump the dirt, and we put the broom and dustpan back in the closet.

My grandfather is pleased that we did that chore, and we are pleased that he is pleased. He says, “You both need to be rewarded for your hard work.”

What hard work? We might have been at it twenty minutes and we just did it to pass the time.

I tell him, “Don’t worry about it.”

He gets all puffed up. “Nonsense. Reggie, bring me the change jar.”

Reggie goes over to the TV and gets it, and Grandpa starts fishing through the change, tipping the jar while he paws at coins. We stand right in front of him. He pulls out a quarter and holds it between his thumb and index finger—right in front of Reggie’s face. “Here you go, Reggie—for a job well done.”

Reggie thanks him and Grandpa sticks his hand back into the jar and keeps searching till he finds another quarter for me. Then he wants to know what we are going to do with our hard-earned money. Reggie yells, “I’m going to get a piece of candy!” I nod in agreement.

Grandpa says, “You know, there’s a corner store at the bottom of the hill on the back street.” He turns and points to the corner of the apartment like he is seeing past the wall and to the store. We are in agreement. Candy from the store would be great. We can’t wait to get our Mom to take us.

He says, “What are you guys waiting for? Go get your candy.”  

I tell him that we can wait for Mom to get back to take us. He says, “She won’t be back for a while and by that time you will be back.”

Reggie and I catch each other’s eye and out the door we go. Our first city adventure! We walk on the sidewalk to the corner and when we round the corner we spot the store. A bunch of older kids are pitching coins. We ask them what they’re doing. One of them gives us a look that says, You talking to us? But then he replies. “We’re playing a game. If you can pitch your coin closest to the wall, you get all the coins.”  

I’m thinking, Awesome! And all you have to do is get all the coins by pitching yours closest to the wall.

Reggie and I watch. We don’t want to play because we only have one coin each. After a while we decide to go into the store and get our candy.

Reggie grabs a chocolate Big Buddy and I choose a strawberry Big Buddy. They’re about six inches long. Before we get to Grandpa’s apartment we hear yelling. It seems to be coming from his apartment.

You guessed it. My Mom got back before us. And boy, is she pissed at her father for letting us leave! We come in with our Big Buddies. Grandfather points at us and says, “See, they’re fine. You’re making a big deal about nothing.”

She erupts. “What the hell is the matter with you? These are your grandchildren. They should not be walking the streets of the city without supervision. I told you that I’d be right back. Why did you send them to the store?”

He explained how we swept the apartment and he gave each of us a quarter so we could go get a piece of candy.

Since she can see that she isn’t going to get anywhere with him, she hurries us to the car and starts at it. “I told you to stay with your grandfather until I got back.”

“Yes, Mom,” I say, “but Grandpa said we could go and get some candy because we cleaned his apartment.” Her answer? We were grounded till the coming weekend.

  When I was thirteen, the phone rang one Sunday night just after dinner. Whoever was on the other end of the line told Mom that her father had been taken to the hospital. My parents began discussing what to do. I was surprised when my Mom asked if I’d like to go with her to the hospital. She said Dad had agreed that I was old enough to go.

It was late when we got to the hospital. Everything seemed very quiet. She parked on the street.

We stop at the nurses’ station and then walk for quite a while before we reach the room. The door is closed so she knocks before pulling it open. The room is an ugly Army green color and has no medical equipment. My grandfather is on the bed under a white sheet. A bare leg sticks out and he isn’t wearing a shirt. He stares at the ceiling and moves restlessly, a wiggling motion side to side.

My Mom chirps, “Hi Dad.”

He mumbles some words and then clearly says, “My dad is bigger than your dad—and my dad can kick your dad’s ass.” He seems to be making the statement to someone else in the room, though he keeps looking straight up at the ceiling.

I stand on one side of the bed and my Mom on the other side. He grows more and more restless. Increased wiggling and mumbling. He has not acknowledged our presence. My Mom urges him to calm down, suggesting that he close his eyes and get some rest.

For a moment he pauses as if he has heard something and is waiting to hear it again, then he says, “My eyes are closed.” But they were not.

She says again, “Dad, close your eyes and rest.”

He repeats, “My eyes are closed.”

She puts her hand over her mouth and murmurs, “Oh my God! He’s blind.”

He begins thrashing about and the sheet gets pulled this way and that. She pleads with him. “Dad, you need to settle down—relax.”      

She is having a tough time keeping the sheet on him. I can see she’s losing her cool. She tells me to hold the sheet while she goes to get the nurse.

I try my best—keep pulling the sheet over him and adjusting it as he moves. Now it’s just him and me. Things continue this way for what I guess is about ten minutes and then he lies perfectly still. I stand next to him, still on the left side of the bed. He continues to look up at the ceiling.

He turns his head and looks straight at me. We make eye contact. He smiles and says, ”Hello, Jimmy.”

I say, “Hello, Grandpa.”

He says, “You’re a good boy.” He nods when he says it, like it’s something he knows to be a fact.

I say, “Thank you, Grandpa.”

He says then in a soft voice, like he’s whispering a big secret, “No, you’re a good boy. You remember that—never forget it, and never let anyone tell you different.”

“Yes, Grandpa, I will remember.”

He continues. “You remember, no matter what anyone says—you are a good boy.”

“Yes Grandpa, I will.”

“Good,” he says, and goes back to staring at the ceiling and mumbling and wiggling. I relaxed when he talked but now I come back to attention, grab the sheet and try to keep it from falling to the floor. A nurse comes in, and my Mom behind her.

I tell them that he spoke, that he said I am a good boy, but my Mom is dismissive, just says, “Sure he did.” The nurse gives my grandfather an injection to settle him down. Almost immediately he closes his eyes.

My Mom is asking the nurse what happened. She says that according to the report, two guys broke into his apartment to get his prescription drugs. They beat him up, took the drugs and trashed his apartment. She finishes by saying my grandfather will sleep for a while and we should go on home and get some rest as well. We say goodnight to Grandfather, even though he isn’t awake, and head for home.

It doesn’t take us long to get home. When Mom pulls into the driveway, Dad comes to the porch and says the hospital has called to say things have changed and my Mom needs to get back there. This time Dad decides to go with her and I am to stay home and keep an eye on my two brothers and my sister.

A couple of hours later they get back. They walk into the kitchen. I’m standing there. I ask, “How is Grandpa?”  

Mom says, “Jimmy, your grandfather has died.”

I stand there processing what she said and then start to cry. I cry for a man that was beat up for his drugs. I cry for a man that wouldn’t hurt a fly. All he wanted was his drink.

My Mom says, “It will be ok. Grandpa was sick and now he is in a better place—he’s not suffering anymore.”

I hear what she says to my Dad as she leaves the room: “I’m surprised he’s so upset about his grandfather.”  

I went to bed. I needed to sleep.

The funeral was in the small town where my grandfather grew up. The funeral director and his family actually lived in the same house as the funeral parlor. I could not believe that. How could anyone live in a house with dead bodies in the basement and in first floor rooms? No way—not me!

My Mom and Dad stand by the casket, along with Aunt Vivian and Uncle Fred. My grandmother does not attend the funeral because she divorced my grandfather and remarried. Many of my parents’ friends and associates show up to pay their respects, plus a lot of extended family members that I haven’t seen in a while. Some are relatives that my parents introduce me to for the first time.

These people never visited my grandfather when he was alive. They were not interested in helping an alcoholic—yet now there are all these warm greetings and condolences. It appears to be a reunion and funeral wrapped into one. I wait for someone to say, “That poor son of a bitch, may he rest in peace.” I suspect many of them thought it, but I didn’t catch anyone saying it aloud.

The wake is for only one night. He’s to be buried in the morning. The thing that strikes me the most, is my Mom and Aunt Vivian standing at the casket. My Dad and Uncle Fred stand behind them. My Mom and Aunt are saying how good their father looks.

Aunt Vivian: “He was a handsome man.”

My Mom: “He was a good man.”

What?! A good man?!  

He was a drunk. He didn’t work. He couldn’t even take care of himself. The only time I saw him in clothes other than his pajamas was the time we took him to the cemetery.

He was a weak man. A broken man. And my grandfather. I cared for him the way you’d care for a mangy under-nourished dog in an alley.

I can still see him sitting there at the kitchen table as my Mom made his bed. She was bitching to him about something. He just turned and smiled at me with a shrug of his shoulders and gave me a wink.

I did miss him. He may not have been productive, but he really was a good man.

Why did life break him? He seemed content to sit in the one-room studio apartment and drink the last part of his life away. He seemed to want to be right there doing just that. It was his safe place, I guess, but I didn’t understand it. Why he would want to be like that? Why would anyone want to be like that?

The answer is rather simple. It was his choice. His freewill.

I remember a statement a priest told me: “Live simply so others can simply live.”

 The night before Grandfather was buried, I dreamed that I was standing inside the front door of his apartment complex. I am looking down the hall and all is dark except for the moonlight coming through a far window. It casts a white glow into the hallway. The hour is late. What am I doing here at this hour? The door opens and I turn to see two young men coming in. One guy is rubbing his nose, and the other guy is scratching his left arm. They stand just inside the front door. One of them points to my grandfather’s door and they start toward the door.

I yell, “What are you doing?”

It’s no use. They can’t hear me. They don’t even look my way. I know they are up to no good. When they reach the door they stop. They are talking but I can’t make out what they are saying. The bigger guy throws himself against the door and breaks it open and they both go inside. I hurry down and stand in the doorway. My grandfather tries to get up from the bed but one of the guys pushes him as they move past him. He falls off the bed and hits the floor hard. The little guy grabs at him, pulling at his undershirt with both hands and hissing, “Where is your money, old man?”  

My grandfather has his hands up to his face. He is shaking and mumbling. He says there is no money. The guy pushes him back onto the floor and my grandfather’s head hits the floor—and then the guy starts punching him.

I start yelling. “Stop! Leave my grandfather alone!”

For some reason I am still at the door. The big guy is dumping pill bottles in a bag. The little guy goes into the closet and starts throwing stuff out. He is pulling books out and fanning through the pages and throws each book over his shoulder as he finishes his search. The guy with the pills shoves them in a bag and yells, “Time to go, let’s get out of here—now!”

As they go to leave, my grandfather rolls to his side and tries to grab one of the guy’s legs. The guy kicks him hard. The guy turns and walks right into me. I close my eyes—expecting him to hit me. Everything goes dark and quiet. I open my eyes. I am in my bed in my bedroom.

The next day we go to Grandfather’s apartment. We find the door to the apartment broken. No one has bothered to secure it—anyone can just walk in. The place is totally trashed. A lot worse than I’d imagined. The TV is busted and over on its side. The kitchen table is in two pieces. The chairs are all over the place and every which way. Clothing and odds and ends are strewn all about.

I don’t know any words to describe how violated I feel. That someone will just come into a place and take whatever they want and trash the rest. That someone will leave an old man to die.

My Mom begins saying we should find something to keep, something to serve as a remembrance of Grandfather. She is asking us to claim a souvenir to remember this moment. I stand there looking around my feet. I pick up a hardcover book. I’d never seen him read anything but the Sunday newspaper’s funny pages. How he did love those cartoons—laughed like a little kid! So innocent and childlike, he was. Not at all interested in being an adult with all the adult pressures.

The souvenir collection happened so fast I really didn’t think it through, because driving home, looking at the book, I knew it would have been better to have found the cup he drank his whiskey and milk from, or the whiskey bottle that lay broken on the ground, or one of the now-empty pill bottles he kept on the TV. Better yet, I should have looked for the Santa Claus with the penis that popped out—because that was the only time I got to hear my grandfather laugh. He would laugh so hard it trailed off into a coughing fit so bad he had to sit down.

That was the last time I saw that apartment—which was okay with me. There was nothing of any real value there anyway. We walked to the parking lot, got into ‘Old Betsy,’ and drove off.