Disquiet Teen

The rotten teen was there, literally.  Propped up against a sea bag and computer box, the decomposed remains of the young man seemed to lazily lean back and smile.  He really had no choice but to smile.

"You have nothing but bad ideas," Tom repeated.  He grabbed the collar of the kid's shirt and roughly pulled the body slightly out of the storage unit.  He held the tire iron ominously over his head, ready to swing forward.  "Say something!  Anything!  You still want a beer?  Say you still want a beer!"

There was no reply.

"I'd pray to God for you," Thomas pushed the body back into the unit and closed the door.  "But I don't think he'd listen to me."

Tomas fumed, slammed the door, and fixed the padlock.  His arm was low, but grip on the tire iron still strained.  His jaw was so tight it ached.

He walked back to the trunk of the car and dropped the iron back inside.  The storage unit came back into view as he shut the trunk, and he shook his head and thought of the young man inside.





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)