I can hear everything from the pullout bed in my room, Champagne bottles lining the blue and green walls.
I like champagne.
I always drink it on my birthday and Christmas Eve and New Years’ and date night.
It's dark in this room.
The window faces a cement building next door.
If I jump out the window, I might be able to clutch the ledge on the parallel building and pull myself into their window that I've never seen open.
I've thought of this many times before.
I hear these men shout FBI in a deep voice.
My eyes dart towards my closet.
I still don't move.
I'm not really scared just anxious.
There's a part of me that wants to get caught, wondering what jail would be like, a federal penitentiary?
My step father is yelling at the deep voiced Feds.
He sounds indignant.
He sounds insulted.
He sounds pissed off, like how can you come to my home where my family is?
It's just like that movie The Godfather, this is my home, how dare you?
I wonder if the Feds will open my door, wink at me, then tear apart my closet and find my gun.
It's not really hidden that great.
I don't really care that much.
I don't really care about anything.
I don't care about my family or whoever they are telling to get up against the wall or if I jump though the window to the building next door, where THAT window is never open, and die.
I haven't used the gun, just played with the trigger, a gentle pressing and releasing like squishing ants when sitting on the sidewalk.
They die those ants, even with such a light touch, the edges of cement cuts them up.
I never cut myself, but I understand the concept, the need to bleed, to feel pain that you can see, instead of hiding in the closet.