Editor's note: My second short story for my class. In this one, we explored creating a story around Aristotle's incline, which is a simple way to understand and build a plot.
His eyes were open but his mind was trapped elsewhere, somewhere dark, a distant memory that poisoned every step he took in the real world, every thought he had, but he could deal with that during the day, muting the poison with other poisons like those $3 pints of vodka from Rahesh's corner store where the open sign hung off of one nail and the lights flickered with a constant buzz that bothered everyone except Rahesh, whose oily eyes floated stagnant behind bloated eyelids. But during the night, it was cruel that this poison could (or should) grip his mind like it did, trapping him in a nightmare that he couldn't escape, even when his eyes were open, because his body was still glued to the bed and the same old movie played in his head of the worst day of his life: the door splinters, the black boot of the militia crunches through near the deadbolt, someone screaming “kill them”, his father's eyes primal with worry and love as he looks at me, slips the pin out of the grenade and runs towards the door and the black shapes opening it, the flashbulb explosion that follows and then the deafening silence.
But the movie always ends. And today was different, less hopeless, and when his body freed him of the glue that sealed him to the sheets every night, he opened the window and did something he couldn't remember doing since the day before that movie. He smiled.
The head of the militia was touring for reelection (a fucking joke if you asked him, it's rigged and she'll win regardless) and today brought her to his block - a speech near the fountain in the local mall. When he saw this in her tour schedule, he applied for a job in a fast food joint in the food court. He was interviewed in the kitchen and while the manager grilled him he noticed two roaches scuttle out from under the grill and wink at him. He got the job.
He looked in the mirror and put his visor on. He practiced his cashier smile. He grabbed the black market grenade from the drawer and felt its weight and admired himself once again for securing it, a perfect weapon to use against the woman who had taken everything from him. He put it inside of a soda can he had cut the top off of, screwed the top on, and threw it in the side of his backpack and headed out.
Outside of the mall, the sun screamed off of the of black militia vehicles lined up like ants. He pulled his visor down and when the rich kids hanging outside of the food court laughed at him because of their fortune and his misfortune he pulled it down even further. There was militia security at the food court door, which he expected, but they barely glanced at him as he walked through the employee door. He felt his hate and the familiar poison release into his blood, which was normally the sign to find something to drink, but this time he let it fill him up. He let it grip his mind and his heart and he surrendered to it. And over the next hour he tumbled through time and space as he exchanged burgers and change for dollars and swipes, and when he left for his break his hate pulsed and pulled him towards the fountain. He wasn't walking he was floating and when she walked to the podium and he slipped the pin out of the grenade he was still floating and probably smiling and when he threw it, it arced through the air like he had practiced so many times and landed where it was supposed to and exploded like it was supposed to and killed the person it was supposed to.
But the pizza colored blast killed others, too, and when his feet hit the ground and his mind returned to orbit he saw a little girl standing with her thumb in her mouth and confusion on her face and whoever she was with was laying on the ground next to her, stock-still. And when he should have been turning and running and feeling the bliss of the moment he had waited so long for he dropped to his knees under the weight of the nightmare, of the old movie he had just created in that little girl's mind and when the militia tackled him to the ground and his collarbone snapped, he didn't resist and tears cleared the dirt in streaks off of his face.