Part2 aka Mike's "More Magic"

The day the cops came was a Sunday. John had off from work, and I was locked in my room all day, like always. Growing up, for me, wasn’t like all the other kids. I couldn’t go and sit in my room all day like others would. In my room, I didn’t have a huge television; I didn’t have a bunch of videogames, or a loud stereo system. I didn’t have any of that stuff. My room was small, like a walk-in closet. I had a cot in one corner, like the ones you buy in a military supply catalog. There was also a plastic container that held my clothes, a small seat with no cushion, and reading lamp. The walls were dirty white, and the only window in the room was barred from the outside. John did permit me to have books. I read a lot; after all it was one of the few things I could do to pass the time.

I was in my room reading Rage a novel written by Steven King in the early stages of his career. It was about a high school student who shot his math teacher and held the class hostage, while he used the time as a therapy session to relieve his feelings. Somebody outside the apartment knocked on the door twice. Though I could not see what was happening I heard it all. John opened the door. Two men with deep voices asked if they could come in. He replied to them asking what the fuck they wanted. I heard the heavy footsteps enter out living room, and they began talking. A lot of what they said was in whisper, but I could tell by their tones, they were interrogating John, and he was anxiously defending himself. After a couple of minutes, I heard footsteps approaching my door. Somebody tried the handle, and then said it was locked. Then I heard John approaching, he had heavy footsteps, and they were clunky too. I could always tell it was him whenever he was walking around. He unlocked the door and one of the officers opened the door to see me lying on my cot reading. Unfortunately I didn’t have a shirt on, and the bruise John had left on my chest the night before was clearly visible from the doorway. They asked me to stand up, and come out to the living room to join them. I did so without saying anything, not a word.

When I got out to the living room, I saw both the officers standing up, their bodies angled with their gun away from him. Good for that, I don’t trust him either. But is he really stupid enough to attempt something like that? John was sitting on the couch, sweat was beading on his forehead, he was nervous but at the same time his teeth were clenched and he was pissed. He was staring right at me, my chest exposed, and the black and blue mark just below my left nipple. I was thin, but healthy, though you could still make out at least three ribs on my side. I walked out to the living room, and over to the wall opposite them all. The walls in the living room were white, pure white, like sugar. John constantly cleaned them to keep them presentable for his guests and girls. I leaned against the wall and put my foot up on it. My soles weren’t exactly clean, and I knew this would piss him off even more. His stare hardened and I knew at this point he was straining himself to not jump up and beat the daylights out of me.

The cops wanted to ask me some questions, while one of them asked my father to get up and move into our kitchen, I moved over to sit down on the couch, leaving a dirty smudge on the wall where I stood. As we walked past each other, our eyes locked for a quick passing moment, and I knew he was on his last nerve. Part of me was laughing at how easy it was to get to him, while the other part was nearly shitting bricks just thinking about what he would do once the cops left. I was lying across the couch, with the cop sitting in the armchair across the coffee table. He wore a full uniform- navy blue shirt and pants, black leather boots, a utility belt wrapped around his waist, and a navy and gold patch on his left shoulder. His name tag read Officer Miller, and his badge number was 5440; these last two details were the first two things I noticed when my bedroom door opened, probably because I was eye level with his chest. As I stared at the other end other the couch, I noticed from my peripherals that he was staring into my eyes, almost like he was probing for something. In truth, I didn’t want to speak up first.

“What’s your name, son?” he whispered to me.

Son, who was he to call me son, so I mockingly replied; “Son, I am not your son, I have no father.”

The officer stared at me, and I knew what he was thinking. He was awed to believe that in the midst of trying to help me, I had mocked him, and still not given him the answer to his question. After a couple of seconds, he just gave up and moved on.

“You look a little thin, should I call some pizza for delivery?” he was playing the good cop routine, trying to gain my trust. However, I don’t give my trust to no one. Just as well, I had not had dinner last night and hunger was gnawing at my insides. My face lit up when he asked, and I could not switch back to seriousness fast enough. He knew what my answer was before I even said anything; I know this because he pulled out his cell phone and ordered for delivery. A regular pie and a bottle of Coke, when he had finished placing the order he asked the other end to hold on for a second, while he covered up the microphone with his hand and turned to me.

“What’s the address of this apartment,” he asked.

“You drove here didn’t you,” I smartly replied.

I could see in his eyes he was slowing tiring of my attitude and we hadn’t even gotten anywhere yet. I made myself comfortable and stretched out on the full length of the couch, slouched but not quite laying down. He’s not an idiot; he’d figure it out himself. Miller here, called into the next room to the other officer, apparently named Lincoln, who remembered the address. Miller finished the order and put his cell phone back into the clip on his belt. Cops must have some kind of pull when talking to people because the delivery guy came quicker than I’ve ever seen, and he didn’t even bother asking for a tip, not that officer Miller intended to give him one anyway. He just paid and shut the door. A little rude I thought, but he probably wants to stop wasting time and get some food in my stomach with the idea that maybe I’ll start talking.

The box was hot and steamed up the glass coffee table. I could smell the pizza in the steam that wisped out of the side vent holes. My mouth was watering, I think I may have drooled, but I couldn’t find out where it dripped. Miller cut open the box and then called to Lincoln in the kitchen who tossed him two of John’s nice drinking glasses. Holy-fucking-shit, I thought to myself, John’s going to kill me when they leave. He poured us both out of the bottle of Coca-Cola and let me grab the first slice of pizza before taking a piece for himself. I scoffed down the whole greasy slice and grabbed a second, as he merely bit the tip of his. Table manners, those died four years ago as well. By the time I had finished three slices, only stopping to knock back a few cups of Coke, I looked up to see Miller still on his first slice, nearing the crust. I could feel the oils of the pizza dribbling down my chin and quickly wiped at it with the back of my hand and then down the side of my pant leg.

Miller finished his slice and dabbed at his lips with a napkin, before tossing it onto his paper plate and pushing it to the side. He reached for his cup, downing his whole drink in one quick swig, being careful not to slurp the cola as it got shallower towards the end.

Note: Left the story open-ended again, maybe I'll put in some more work at a later time. By the way Mike, I got another story going, it's not really a badass one like I tried to make this but at least its an effort, I'll post the beginning of that a bit later on.