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TITLE: Scarlet and Gray By Patrick McClure 01/15/07 |
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Jeremy lies on his bedroom floor, unmoving. His bed is made, navy sheets covered by a green and blue duvet, two pillows. A Tom Brady poster hangs above the bed by four thumbtacks, one at each corner. The Celtics poster near the door droops, its top left corner ripped through the tack. His desk sits immaculate. Textbooks line the back edge, two Red Sox mugs their bookends. A stack of envelopes huddle near the left rim, a stapler, three-ring binder, latched laptop organize the rest of the desk. A sheet of paper, folded in threes, with official university letterhead and “We regret to inform you” sits atop the computer. His closet is closed, shoes stacked, neatly inside, a football, cleats, and dumbbell set sit in the corner. The hamper isn’t full, and what’s there nestles inside, nothing hanging out or spilling over. The carpet is recently vacuumed, feint lines still patterning the beige, except the large, blood-seeping spot near the foot of the bed. The five-bladed ceiling fan whirls, on low, a light squeak with each revolution. The sound of four paws bounding up the staircase, and a labrador’s panting, overshadow the fan. Frantic barks yelp for attention. The door of the room rests open, unlocked, an Ohio State poster hanging in the middle, a maroon-colored splatter of blood seeping down the bottom edge, covering the tacks and doorknob.
Thirteen seconds later, Jeremy’s father, gloves still on his hands, sawdust sprinkled on the legs of his jeans, slams past Buckeye, still barking. His momentum continues the six feet to Jeremy’s body, sending him into a half-slide towards his son’s midsection, knees drowning in bloody carpet.
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