Damn, he thought, this is some heavy shit. He took a couple more puffs and smashed the rest of the joint out in the ashtray. I think I’m good, he thought, pulling out his phone to look at the clock. What the fuck! It’s only been 15 minutes! He thought, placing his hand to the top of his head, I better get to my room.

He made his way out of the shed and stepped outside, noticing the sun had gone down and the sky was starting to fade from a blood orange to a purplish black.

He took a big, deep breath, filling his lungs with fresh air. Unexpectedly, he began to feel as if an imposing force was surrounding him. A resounding feeling of dread, a violent storm that wanted to swallow him up like a hurricane. His heart raced as he looked around, noises seemed to be elevated and louder than usual. 

He realized a terrible truth, that at that moment, he was completely vulnerable. He was subject to anyone, or anything, and he could be attacked at this very moment, from any and all directions. It frightened him to his core. He thought of the man who had died at the end of the alleyway, and the close proximity of which it happened only seemed to refresh his sensation of fear.

He ran back into the house, checking to see if his grandmother was safe.

There she was, sitting on her bed, oblivious to the type of danger she was in. He remembered his gun, and made his way calmly upstairs so as not to alarm her. He walked past her without saying a word. He ascended the stairs, feeling as if someone would bust down his door to kill them at any second.

He had to prepare himself, it was either die or kill, and he was not ready to die. He went to his dresser drawer and removed the gun, he checked to see that his magazine was loaded, inserted it into the gun, and cocked it back. He could sense there was something dark, something sinister at play.

 He held the gun tightly by his side as he peeked out of his window that faced the backyard and alleyway. He couldn’t see anyone there, maybe they’re sneaking around to the front! He thought. He made his way downstairs, his heightened awareness being fueled even further by his adrenaline and fear. He went to the front door.

This is it, he thought, today is the day I have to take a life. He peered out the stained glass of the door but couldn’t see clearly, so he opened it. He looked outside cautiously as if at any second a bullet would come whizzing toward him, and he would have to return fire. He was ready.

He waited. Nothing happened. He opened the door as the breeze of the night washed over him. Nobody was outside. There was no threat. No assassin of the night was coming to get them. 

What the hell are you doing? He thought.

He looked into the living room, his grandmother was still watching tv, not noticing him in the slightest. Her dog, however, was staring directly at him. It’s as if the dog could sense his fear, his sense of danger. But his face reflected the same expression of what the hell are you doing? He stared at the dog, did I just hear his thoughts? The boy wondered, no, what the hell?

You’re tripping. Said the voice.

He looked down at the gun, and realized he didn’t need it. Not at that moment at least, and that he was being paranoid for no reason. 

No. Said the voice. What if you were right? You have to protect your family, your house, your LIFE.

He remembered the old man’s words.

“Do not be afraid.”

Fear. His fear was getting the best of him. The fear of uncertainty, the fear of not being in control, the fear of vulnerability, of losing his loved ones. He should not be afraid, he couldn’t be afraid, he had to face his fear.

He should do what the old man said, and go to his room, close his eyes, and lay in the dark. He crept back upstairs slowly so as to not make a sound, and shut the door of his room behind him.

Next Chapter: War