Chapter Text
“Corey! Get the fuck up!”
Dude’s dad was a drunk bastard, always yelling at him. He groans as he sits up in bed, blinking away the last of his nightmares. Hoisting himself up, he tugs on whichever pair of jeans smells the least like sweat and bodily fluids. The water in their broken down camper was long broken, forcing dude to sneak into the gym to shower. He knew his father wouldn’t fix it. The camper was a shit hole, to say the least. A horder house mess, bordering on unlivable. Dude piles into their beat up Toyota Camry with his dad in the front seat. God, how he hated the stench of old beer and cigarettes. It made him sick. The radio finally buzzes to life not long into their drive.
“I don’t practice Santeria, I ain’t got no crystal ball.”
His Father groans, changing the station rather quickly. Dude sighs, his eyes wandering to the window. Flecks of white snow fluttered down onto the children in their yards, building snow men and angels. Families laughing, their Christmas trees gleaming in their windows. It felt almost mocking. Dude yearned for the family he once had, a younger him curled up with his mother and sister, celebrating-
“Fuck are you smiling for, huh?”
Dude’s dad stared into him, his green eyes mirroring his own. Dude hadn’t realized he was smiling.
“I wasn’t.”
He responds, looking off into the richer neighborhoods with a sneer.
“Good.” His father grumbles. “You ain’t got shit to be happy about. You know, this is really all your fault. Your mother-“
Dude tunes his dad’s nagging out with a blank stare to the life beyond. Once arriving at the grocery store he sticks behind his dad, making sure not to piss him off. He knows if he pisses him off they’ll be forced to leave in a rush, which means dude can’t steal his father’s cigarettes and beer to sell for some extra cash.
Slowly, he slinks off to the gun section. Paradise was far, far too small to have their own gun store. Within the grocery store his eyes lay upon a long, sliver, shotgun. A Browning Auto-5. A rather old gun, clearly used. But to Dude? It was like finding a slab of gold. His fingers trace along the wooden handle, he’s practically salivating over the idea of owning such a gun.
“Corey, get your faggot ass over here!”
His dad shouts at him. Dude turns, silently following behind his father, dreaming of what he could do with that gun.
Hours later, after his father is black out drunk, Dude returns, determined to own that gun.
“How much?”
He coughs, a bit anxious yet exhilarated. As the gun was pre owned, it was fairly cheap, only about $500. Whatever dumbass priced this gun clearly didn’t know what he had on him. Dude slips the cashier enough cash for the gun and some ammo.
Slinging the gun on his back, he starts the cold walk home. The wind whipping his face doesn’t bother him, not even the rain that drizzles down onto him. All that matters to him is his gun and the carnage that he now wields.
Dude slumps onto his bed, stained with god knows what. With his shitty pocket knife he begins to carve into the scratched up wood. With swirls and sharp edges, he engraves a bird, a mourning dove, his mother’s favorite. He steps out of his room, approaching his father’s sleeping form upon the couch.
“Open wide, shithead.”
He aims and fires, starting the carnage and cursing Paradise.