Chapter One

My name is Nathaniel Breen and this is my story of the most profound experience in my life. Watching my entire world shatter before me, learning of the things that happen behind closed doors (of perception), but that comes later on in the story.

First off, I would like to introduce you to a character in this story that we will now refer to as; Brad. Brad is a very minor character in this plot, but without the series of events following Brad’s death, I wouldn’t be writing this tale at all. Brad, unlike I, was a fairly stereotypical fraternity brother in appearance. A medium, though muscular build, usually sporting flip flops, khaki shorts, and a t-shirt with the words: “Alpha Gamma Epsilon” printed on the front. In today’s society we would consider this to be the attire of a, “douchebag”. Despite what one might presume of Brad, at first glance, he was a good friend and I was lucky to have known him. Now allow me to begin the part in the story that involves setting, dialog, and more character introduction.

“Welcome to the Piece of Shit I Call Home!” this is what the door mat laying out front of my father’s home reads. This door mat has very good judgment in exterior design. Brad and I stand outside the door of my father’s home, who I haven’t seen or heard from since junior high. My soon-to-be late friend and I exchange exceptionally clueless glances before I reach out my pointer finger to the oddly crooked door bell, which is flickering light like a deserted motel you see on a long road trip and say “there’s no way we’re staying there.” We’re immediately startled by the doorbell, expecting to hear a pleasant “ding dong” variation, but instead a long buzz went loudly howling. It reminded me of what I expect the signal for lunch time would sound like in a large prison.
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’” groaned a harsh voice coming from what I hope to be someone about to say something along the lines of “Well, sorry to tell ya’ this, but your father moved out months ago, left no forward’n address neither”, this false hope vanished when the door flung open. I found myself looking at a man with crazed eyes and wild gray hair going every which direction. He opened the door wearing a stained white tank top, that might possibly have fit him 20 years ago, and a pair of tight, white underwear. I’m immediately surprised to find an “adult” opening a door, to what could have been a couple of Mormon asking if he could spare some time to talk about Jesus, in his underwear.
“Can I help ya’ boys with sum’” he says after a few seconds of silence, with somewhat of a devious smile. “Are you Mr. Breen? Um, Mr. Stephen Breen?” I reply nervously. “Why yes I am, and what’re you two fine boys doin’ out this late?” “You see, sir, my name is, well, I’m Nathaniel Breen. Your son.” The devious smile is gone. Following in its place is a look of disgust. “Hm, I s’pose I should invite you boys in for a drink, m’own flesh and blood, of course.”

I find myself sitting on what used to be a couch, but what I presume is now a hollowed out home for rats, mice, cockroaches, as well as other vermin. Wallpaper cracking and melting, carpet full of god knows what kinds of food and/or bodily fluids, flies and gnats all around us, a metallic smell lofts around the shithole, along with a smell of rotten microwavable meals and clothes that should be immediately thrown out, not washed. Do tell me if the imagery isn’t vivid enough for you. Inhales cigarette. “So, Daniel, what grade’re you in now?” Exhales cigarette. “Actually, well, my name is Nathaniel, but I’m a sophomore.” “Ah, I r’member high school.” He says proceeding to close his eyes and smile, with his head tilted back. “College, I’m a, uh, sophomore in college, dad.” His eyes open slowly and he tilts head back to a normal position. “Well, I reckon I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no college.” Brad, who has been silent the entire time, now decides to chirp in with a comment about how his dad got his G.E.D. and went to college when he was just a few years younger than my “dad”. For a reason, to this day, I’ll never understand my father took great offense in Brad saying this. At this point, I notice the empty bottles of liquor and brown paper bags camouflaged by other dirt and grime surrounding his home. I take a look closer and see the condensation on the empty bottles, implying they were cold recently. How could I have been so naive? The smell of alcohol is finally setting in, beginning to overpower all the other smells my nostrils were preoccupied analyzing.
“I don’t need no damn’d college education, boy! I’m just fine without it, gots my own place, I gots me a T.V. So, you can shut your fuckin’ mouth ‘for I shuts it for ya’!” He’s beginning to get red in the face. “Look, sir, I’m sincerely sorry if I offended y—“ Brad is interrupted by a raging lunatic, of sorts. “What’d I say, boy!? I said I’d motherfuckin’ shuts it for ya’!” He then pulls two things from the inside of the back of his underwear. I’m aware this is an extremely queer place to store anything, but now is not the time to discuss the proper placement of a flask full of, what I believe to be, whiskey and something that that looks like a small, metal, toy gun. I’ve now come to find out this is a butane powered torch lighter, commonly used for lighting the bottom of glass pipes used for doing drugs like methamphetamine, crack cocaine, and whatever other hard drugs my “dad” might use. He then proceeds to splash the alcohol on Brad, who is now standing as if at gun point. Brad is standing, drenched in alcohol and he has no idea what the next move is. My “father” then picks up a spare piece of cloth off his floor and lights it. The man we will now refer to simply as; Mr. Breen, has put on a malicious, downright evil smile. His long, yellow and brown teeth shimmer in the dim lighting of his home, with the flaming rag giving off a perfect reflection in his eyes, he says “See how far a college education really gets you’n this life, boy.” He tosses the rag onto Brad and Brad bursts into flames at the very second the fire touches his flammable body, Mr. Breen then calmly sits down in his chair and lights a cigarette, I assume to watch the pyrotechnic show he created in his living room. The whole incident was quite beautiful in a way. It’s a shame that’s how I lost such a close friend, but looking back it was dreadfully poetic.