In Medias Res

You slam the door in fiercely and lock it, not caring for a damned second that your parents are screaming at you from the other end, slamming their fists on the white, wooden doors. You kick on the door and shout for them to leave you alone and the yelling roars into frantic punishments and threats. The tears stream down your eyes and you scream back at them, begging them to leave you alone, to let you be for once in your pathetic life. You just want to be left alone; no one to influence you, demand things from you, accuse you. You start sobbing. You sob on behalf of all of the years you have lived, on behalf of your broken heart, and on behalf of the past few months. By the time your throat is locked and your stomach aches, your nose a runny mess and your eyes burning, your parents are long gone. They have left the house slamming the door behind them and leaving to shop for a therapist.

You reach for a tissue, next to your night stand, and you glance at the window. You see the red bucket against your window, strapped up by sturdy rope. The familiar memories make you angry and you open your window, the early spring air hitting you. You're about to throw the bucket down in the bushes below, but the words you see for a fleeting moment stop you cold. You look inside and see a thick document titled A Love Story. Under the title you read, "Written and edited by Kenny McCormick".

You slowly close the window doors and you wipe the tears forming in your tired eyes that never leave the title page. You sit down on the edge of your bed and flip to the next page.

"For Leopold Butters Scotch, my former best friend and hopefully the one person that can smile in my memory."

You clench your teeth, the resentment and hate building up in your chest. You want to fling the document into the dumpster next to the convenience store in town. You don't. You turn the page and begin to read the Letter of Payment.