Comin' Home to You

by Dustin Mcwilliams

  “Why? You accusing me of something?”

  “Didn’t say that.”

  “Sure as hell seems that way. Why do you give a shit if someone shot up that faggot ass motherfucker’s house?”

  “Didn’t say I did.”

  Clint picked at a scab on his neck. “Then why the fuck you askin’ me about this shit?”

  Scar didn’t reply. Clint wasn’t about to acquiesce with his inquiries. He was the type to deny something like a stabbing vehemently, even if he was holding a bloody knife. Thinking quickly, Scar decided on a different approach. Walking by Clint and lightly brushing shoulders, he opened the door to the trailer. Inside the dim-lit hovel, Bubba was sitting in a lawn chair, lighting up his meth pipe. Bird Dog, overly obsessed, was using his phone to show pictures of Ben Tomkins’ wife in a bikini on a boat to BJ. Guns that were likely loaded sat on a kitchen counter next to them.

  Scar picked his target easily. “Hey, Bird Dog, you hear about the Tomkins’ house getting shot up?”

  “Uh…what got shot up?” stammered Bird Dog.

  “Owen Tomkins’ house.”

  “I uh…yeah, I think I heard somethin’ about it.”

  “Well, tell me what you know.”

  Bird Dog’s glazed eyes looked around. First, at BJ, then Bubba, then at Clint, who had quietly appeared behind Scar. “Um, well I just heard a couple guys shot at his house. Shot some windows out or somethin’ like that.”

  “Uh huh. What else you know? Do these couple of guys have names?”

  BJ decided to answer for his friend. “Nah, man. Ain’t anyone seen who it was.”

  “Oh really? How’d you hear of it then?”

  “Just around. You know how gossip moves fast around here.”

  Scar crossed his arms and looked up at the dilapidated ceiling, where a June bug sat stationary, as if watching this event play out. “Yeah. Words move fast. From what I heard, it was three guys. One of them, you know, from what I heard, had one hell of a country bumpkin hick accent.”

  Bird Dog shrugged his shoulders and had a dumb look on his pudgy face. “We live in Texas. All you gotta do is turn around and you’ll find someone that sounds like that.”

  BJ fidgeted, raising an eyebrow and nervously looking from side to side.

  Inhaling from his pipe stridently, Bubba decided to make his presence known by exhaling just as loudly. Scar turned his head toward him. “You got any input on this, Bubba?”

  “I might.”

  “I’m all ears. What do you know about this?”

  Bubba emptied the remains of his meth onto the already filthy floor. “What I know about it? Well, we might have been the three guys you’re lookin’ for.”

  “Then you gonna tell me why you did it?”

  “I said we might be the ones you’re lookin’ for. Never said we were.”

  Scar could hear Clint softly cracking up behind him. “Man, don’t fuck with me, Bubba. Be a man about it. Tell me.”

  Bubba rose up from his lawn chair that looked like it was covered in squirrel shit. “Alright, it was us. Me, BJ, and ol’ Bird Dog here shot up that bitch’s house all to shit. Now that I told you what you’ve been dying to hear, you answer me a question.”

  Scar was too surprised by Bubba’s sudden brash tone to even respond.

  “Why do you give a shit, huh? I thought you hated Owen.”

  “I do.”

  “Then why the fuck do you give a shit?”

  “Reasons you don’t need to know about.”

  “The fuck? You defendin’ him or some shit?”

  “Bubba, you better watch your tone with me.”

  Taking a step closer, Bubba had a smug look on his face. “I ain’t got no fuckin’ tone.”

  “Yeah, you do motherfucker. You better take a step back.”

  Bubba ignored his demand and took another step closer. “Nah, I ain’t doin’ what you say this time.”

  Scar wouldn’t say he was shocked, but Bubba’s cocky and arrogant persona had taken him slightly aback. While it was obvious that he was drunk and high on whatever meth he was smoking, Bubba still never had this much of an attitude.

  However, at this juncture, he wanted answers. Scar turned around toward his brother. “So, brother, you gonna answer why you did this?”

  “Why are you so fuckin’ pissed about this?” demanded Clint, as he cracked open a beer. “You want him dead, right? Then why are you so bent out of shape about this?”

  “Because I told you not to do anything until I said so!”

  “We didn’t! I just sent the boys to just take some fuckin’ shots at his house! Break some fuckin’ windows, Talk some shit. Big fuckin’ deal!”

  “It is a big deal!”

  Before Scar could explain, Bubba interrupted with his annoying and booming voice. “You ain’t the Scar anyone remembers. The way you be defendin’ Owen’s ass and shit, you’d think he’s your boyfriend.”

  Scar spun around on a dime. “The fuck you say!?”

  Bubba bowed up. “You two must be so in love, might as well change your last name to Tomkins.”

  Quickly clenching his right fist into a hard ironclad ball, Scar swung at Bubba’s face with all his might. However, Bubba seemed prepared for this, moving his head out of the way just in time. Acting on drugged instinct, Bubba swiftly shoved Scar into the corner of the trailer’s kitchen, then darted toward the counter where BJ and Bird Dog stood, completely dumbfounded by what was going on. Scar, springing himself from the decrepit oven, noticed what he was actually running to. Bubba’s target was a .38 Special revolver.

  Bubba managed to pick it up, but Scar was right there in an instant, preventing him from aiming the gun at him by grabbing Bubba’s wrist and hand. It became a life or death struggle, as both men tried to outmuscle each other for the revolver. Scar knew he was stronger than Bubba, but when a livelihood is on the line, a man’s strength can increase. At one point, Bubba had almost wrestled the gun away completely, if not for the perseverance of Scar. BJ and Bird Dog had fled the trailer, due to the gun inadvertently being aimed at them numerous times. Clint stayed inside, calmly watching and drinking his beer.

  Doing anything he could to take the gun, Bubba was pulling out all the stops. He landed two head butts, though it didn’t faze the determined Scar. Taking a millisecond to actually examine the firearm the two men were wrestling over, Scar noticed no visible rounds in the chambers. That meant that there was either one bullet ready to fire in the barrel, or there were no bullets in the chambers at all. He didn’t want to risk it either way. He knew this gun to be a double-action revolver, so pulling the trigger would allow it to fire. He didn’t want to be in its path if it did.

  Scar, even as strong as he was, knew he couldn’t win if the two men continued to fight for control of the revolver. Bubba’s meth-controlled body was relentless in his battle for the gun, and even with his huge frame, he didn’t seem to be out of breath or tired at all. Scar had to act fast. As he thought about how to survive this, he was astonished to realize that the firearm had not been fired once during this ruckus. That was the key. If he could fire the gun, the two men would have nothing left to wrestle over.

  Using the last ounces of his full strength, Scar powered the gun to aim down to the floor. Both foes made grunting noises, but Scar finally had the advantage. He weaseled his index finger toward the trigger, and with every fiber of his being, managed to pull it.

  The gun went off, right into Bubba’s foot.

  Bubba fell to the floor in pain as Scar willingly let the revolver drop to the floor. Clint, who had been rather calm during this ordeal, got a little wide-eyed at what just happened. BJ and Bird Dog ran back in and saw the damage. Both yelled expletives in bewilderment. Just moments ago, they were getting messed up off of beer and meth. Now, Bubba had a bullet wound in his foot. Likely it killed whatever buzz they were on.

  For a moment, Scar had forgotten what Bubba said to initiate this fight until he looked at Clint’s confused face
. He was reminded why he came here, which in turn allowed him to remember each following event. To basically insult a Grayson by comparing them to a Tomkins is blasphemy. It was a crime that was punishable by death. That was the lifestyle that Roy lived on, and the same idealism that was instilled into Scar. He already disliked Bubba anyway, so it made it a lot easier to proceed by giving out his personal sentencing.

  With a grin on his face, Scar kicked Bubba precisely in the nose with the point of his cowboy boot. His skin burst open instantly, creating a large gash across the bridge. The blow also made blood pour from his nostrils. But Scar wasn’t done. All the emotions from the day came back to him like a boomerang. Roy’s fate, Austin being hurt by his brother’s stupidity, it was just too much to keep inside.

  He stomped on the face of Bubba. Then again. And again. The heel of the boot was like a sledgehammer. With each stomp, he could feel Bubba’s face become softer and softer. When he finally stopped, Bubba’s face was absolute mush. Hints of his brain lay in the pool of blood that was pouring from wide open cracks in his lifeless skull. Scar’s boot was a crimson mess. Taking a step back from Bubba’s fresh corpse, he noticed that each step he made left a bloody footprint on the already disgusting linoleum floor. Needing some fresh air, Scar walked outside, pushing BJ out of the way on his way out.

  Clint followed him, exasperated. “The fuck did you do that for!?”

  “You heard what he said. Nobody gets away with what he said.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t have to fuckin’ kill him. Shit, just beat his ass, shit.”

  “Didn’t fuckin’ like him anyway.”

  “I hope you’re gonna clean up that fuckin’ mess in there.”

  “I ain’t cleaning up a god damn thing. All this shit started because you didn’t do what I say!”

  Infuriated, Clint threw his half-finished beer to the ground. “You ain’t my fuckin’ boss!”

  “Oh, yes I am, you ungrateful little shit,” retorted Scar, now just as angry as he was when he was stomping Bubba to death. “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be able to buy the fucking drugs that you just blow through. You barely contribute to the Roaring 20’s. Hell, Bubba’s fucking dead body in there did more than you do! I…you listening? I fucking support you and your family!”

  Clint sniveled like an angry little child. “Fuck you, you fucking asshole! At least I did something about Owen. You just went home and didn’t do shit. I did something! I bet Owen’s shit his pants because of me and my crew. I take initiative, motherfucker!”

  “Your initiative got your son shot! Yeah, you heard me. Austin took a fucking bullet in his arm because of your stupidity!”

  Staring at the ground, Clint didn’t make a reply until he was ready. “Then maybe that will serve as a lesson to the boy.”

  “What fucking lesson!?”

  “To associate with a fuckin’ Tomkins! Shit, maybe Ali deserves a bullet too.”

  Scar was speechless. He utterly and literally couldn’t think of a single word to say. This was the proof he didn’t want to realize. Clint really didn’t care for Ali and Austin. Scar was sure Clint didn’t even care about the family as a whole. He was selfish, self-centered, sociopathic, and living in a world of his own. Scar doubted he could blame his drug addiction either for his views on his own family. This was just how his brother was. Now that the truth had slapped him across the face, he wondered how he would advance from here. He was still angry, so he had a damn good idea.

  He made a fist and slugged his brother right in the cheek.

  Clint fell to the ground, grabbing the side of his face in pain. Scar didn’t exactly enjoy seeing his brother hurting, but that punch was like therapy. Maybe Clint needed one of those all along. Roy would punch the crap out of him back when he was a boy, and not always when he deserved it. Sometimes he would do it just for the hell of it. Those actions of his older brother helped him understand that life wasn’t fair. The only way to make life work in your favor was to stand up and be tough, and Scar was definitely tough. But that was something Clint was not. Sure, his younger brother could scrap with the best of them, but he wasn’t truly tough. Perhaps his definition of that word wasn’t the same as the Merriam-Webster version, but Scar knew what it meant to him, and that was all that mattered.

  Now, his reason for coming to this disgusting locale was over. He found the answer he was seeking, but it wasn’t necessarily the answer he wanted. He ordered BJ and Bird Dog to clean up the mess in the trailer, or their fate would be very similar to Bubba’s. They didn’t need to be asked twice, with each man hustling back into the trailer like scolded dogs. He looked down at his grounded younger brother. He wanted to say something strong, but still consoling. Sadly, nothing crossed his mind. Clint looked away, refusing to look at his assailant. Scar knew the feeling too well. Whenever Roy socked him as a kid, he just couldn’t bring his eyes to face him. It was an emotion difficult to describe. Obviously, he recalled the pain of being punched, but there was more to it. Scar remembered holding back the tears, because if Roy saw a tear, a stronger ass kicking would commence. That’s what it meant to be tough. It was about bowing up to your fears, becoming accountable for your faults, and growing stronger both mentally and physically. Clint was bullied just like any younger sibling, but Scar had never taught the same lessons to his younger brother as Roy taught to him. Maybe it was his fault he was like this.

  Maybe Clint will find the answers on his own. He believed that thought alone to be reassuring. With that in his mind, Scar walked away and into the dark copse. When he discerned that he was definitely out of visibility from his brother, he turned around to look back. The faint glow of a cell phone could be seen from Clint’s hand. He put it up to his ear, but if the younger brother was saying anything, Scar couldn’t hear. He didn’t care to know anyway. Solemnly, Scar walked back to his truck.

  A few steps into the forested thicket, Scar was met with an alarming surprise when he stepped straight into the swamp he had evaded earlier. He first felt furious, but hastily found humor in this. His boots were already filthy with blood anyway. This all seemed allegorical to him.

  How? That, he couldn’t say.

  Chapter 10

  Owen slowly opened his exhausted eyes. The early morning sunshine beamed through his open blinds, which he chastised himself for not closing before he fell asleep. Although, whether one could call what he did as sleep was questionable. After the shooting shook him and his family to the core, his ability to fall into slumber was compromised. He probably dozed off a few times, but since he didn’t dream about Patricia following the events, he could confirm that he never really fell asleep. His eyes burned, and his body felt like a train wreck. Owen was anxious, but somehow still curious if the punches he took from Scar and Clint left massive bruises. For the last few months, his body discolored easily, even from something as harmless as bumping his thigh into the kitchen table.

  Before he examined himself, he went to go check on Austin and Ali. The young boy had fallen asleep in the room his mother grew up in, which was now the guest bedroom. Even after loud gunfire and a broken window that let the mugginess of the night into the house, he still managed to fall asleep. Owen had placed a tarp over the window, but that area of the house was still unbelievably humid. He wondered how his daughter and grandson fell and stayed asleep, though he noticed ceiling and box fans blaring at the sleeping mother and son. Ali was holding Austin with one of her arms, while the boy was in a rather hilarious sleeping position. One of his arms was over his eyes, while the other hand had its fingers almost going up Ali’s nose. When his daughter slept, she slept hard, so she likely didn’t feel his extremities around her nostrils. He didn’t know how difficult it was for her to go to sleep following the shooting, so he thought it was best to just let her sleep longer.

  Back in his bedroom, Owen removed his shirt in front of his bathroom mirror. His mouth made the shape of an O when he checked out his abdomen area from where Scar punched him. Purple, blue, pi
nk, and black all combined to form a pained combination that was his massive bruise. Just touching it shot shockwaves of agony through his chest area. God, that son of a bitch Scar packs a punch, thought Owen. He had to tip his hat to Scar. Not many men can dish out a beating like him. He’d never felt such a forceful attack in his life, and he never wanted to again.

  Once done examining himself, he took a look at his phone that rested on his bed. He’d missed a call from his work. Shit, I forgot to call in. It wasn’t the first time it had slipped his mind to call the mechanic shop to report he wouldn’t be able to make it in to work. He’d been let go because of it in the past. Of course, he was usually rehired a day later. His boss was quick to forgive and forget. It always surprised him, however. Owen was a skilled mechanic, but he wasn’t phenomenal at it. He was positive there were others in the town and outskirts that could do just as good of a job as he could. He guessed he could be thankful that his boss supplied a steady paycheck through the years. Throwing the phone down back on the bed, he set a task in his mind to call his boss later and apologize.

  Feeling generous, he deemed it a good idea to make his family breakfast. There were some eggs in the refrigerator. He also had some ham he could throw down on the skillet. Add some toast in there, and he was ready to cook a nice breakfast.

  But his illness wouldn’t even allow him to leave his bedroom.

  Owen didn’t even make it to the toilet. Vomit splattered onto the already dirty linoleum floor. It all happened so fast that it was over before it seemingly started. He scrambled for a towel to wipe up the regurgitated whiskey and beer, since that was all he conceivably consumed yesterday. Perhaps he should have ate something, but with his cirrhosis, everything seemed to come up at will. Owen wondered how much longer he would have to bear this. He was constantly in pain, frequently scratching himself, and throwing up almost consistently every day. It was becoming miserable. But he had to endure for the ones still sleeping in the bedroom across the home.

  After cleaning up the mess and gathering his senses, Owen managed to begin cooking breakfast. Watching the ham sizzle in the skillet made his stomach rumble. For once, he was actually hungry. He questioned the last time he cooked a breakfast like this. While thinking what he had eaten the past couple of days, Austin sleepily walked into the kitchen.