One window was boarded up, and a small window on the garage door was smashed, but every other pane of glass seemed still intact. On every visible side from the street, the paint was chipping and peeling. The driveway sloped down into a cutout of the surrounding yard where it joined a garage door. The structure was short – only a single story with an unimpressive roof peak. It was the lack of grandiose features that made me more nervous. There were no giant, iron knockers, nor was it built with ancient brick and covered in vines. It didn’t have massive windows for eyes, or an oversized, gaping, heavy door for a mouth. It wasn’t large and twisted like you see in the cartoons. We stood in the shadow of a tall oak tree and gazed upon the house. The house felt it every time a train sped by, rattling the air and earth around it. But rather than a cul de sac, or deep chasm into a wooded abyss, the house abuted train tracks. The story begins at the foot of a dilapidated house, at the end of a horrifically classic street. I am not asking for anyone’s forgiveness, but try and understand… understand that we were just kids. I have been lying to myself long enough, and it’s time the story is told. My name is Tommy Muto, and I am about to tell you the tragedy of a group of misfit friends that has left a wake of uncertainty and regret in its path. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time – he wasn’t an honor roll student – but in retrospect, I should have done something. Shawn stopped coming to school two days ago. I have seen this same kid stop in the middle of a paintball match and take a shit behind a tree announcing that it was a “no wiper!”. Honestly, I was sort of surprised when I learned that Shawn wrote poems and stuff. I thumbed through a single subject, wide-ruled Calculus notebook that belonged to my friend Shawn Hayes, and I stumbled upon this poem that he wrote. You predict your own end with your actions in lifeĪnd that prophet in you awaits hungry with a scythe That wave you ride will soon demand it’s pay Getting special passes from the hipocrate’s courtīut I won’t carry a stick because it’ll come one day I’m sick of acts that are silent to the herdĪnd sick of seeing those that overtly hurt I’m tired of preachers that are blind to their words
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