Marooned
The icy rain whipped sideways against Alfred Claxton’s face as he sat humbly on the park bench. The nasty weather only added to his dismembered state of mind. Hands in his trenchcoat pockets, he held a stern demeanor. Fingering the item in his pocket, he mulled over his choices. As he made his decision, he slowly rose from the bench and made the trudge towards his house. As he was on his way, he passed a barber shop. Alfred stopped and gazed into the shop, noticing the warm, happy, energy that seemed to eminate from the shop. Deciding he had time, he went it and asked for a shave. The man nicked Alfred on the chin and he wasn’t asked to pay. Taken aback, he left the store in a deeper haze than when he entered. Continuing his walk home, he mulled over how someone could be so kind. Truly confused he continued in a leisurely manner.
Coming to his step, he looked up at his house. It was a nice house by anyones standards. It was made of Eggshell stucco that was pressure washed every month. Ornate window shutters adorned the large crystal clear windows that were the only form of contact this house had with the outside world. They were always kept wide open, and freshly washed. The steps leading to Alfred’s house were made of a rock specially know to small pockets of Africa. The bricks were laid in a horizontal pattern with a row of vertical bricks at the edge. The rock was a dark charcoal color that had an incredible resiliency to wearing down. The railings were handcrafted from shimmering black Indian marble, and spiraled up the stairs, encircling the landing area in front of the door. The front door was the 3rd in a series of dark Mahagoney double doors that were the only entrance to the house. The doors were inlaid with ornate carvings that covered the entire door. The hinges were made from solid silver and were always well oiled. The handles were of the same make and quality and were always polished so ones reflection could be seen when opening the door.
The house was Alfred’s. Everything was hand picked by Alfred Claxton, even the address. It would be wrong to say that Alfred loved the house, nor did he hate it. He felt nothing towards the house. He would not burn it to the ground, but he would not spend a dime to repair it if it did.
Alfred took the steps slowly, appreciating the handiwork of the stairs, toying with the cool marble, slick with rain. He entered the house, not looking to catch a glimpse of himself in the handle. After taking slow stroll around the ground floor of the house, he ascended the stairs, tripping on the last stair as he went up. Alfred Claxton walked hallway, his penny loafers padding on the carpet as he made his way toward the door at the end of the hall. He entered the room. Alfred Claxton looked at the couple that was bound on the floor in front of him. He removed the item he had been fodling from his pocket and shot the man and wife twice each.
He still lives in their house.
