The Clash

Should I stay or should I go…

It was very hard to have a parental instinct when you are very clearly the baby of the family. Your father has walked into the living room many a time wearing questionable outfit choices, and despite your more suitable suggestions, he simply dismisses you and leaves the house looking like a fool.

But this was more important than clothes, and much more threatening. One night, your mother came in out of breath, looking shaken. Her pupils were dilated with fear. She told us that a man had followed her in the apartment parking garage, almost all the way to our door. But he turned into another hall when she entered our floor. Your older sister held her hand, consoling her, and your brother refused to think it was anything but a coincidence. But you believed your mother. You knew it was real.

One day it’s fine and next it’s black...

So you did some searching. And some finding. Now the culprit is here, and wouldn’t you know? In his journal were some damning bits of evidence that proved his silent and lasting obsession with your mother. You love your mother deeply, so much so that your heart swells each time you see her. She deserves to be free from worry, from dread, from people like the one before you. You can’t even bear to spit out his name.

He shuddered against the chair he was chained to. He was gagged with a greasy mechanic’s rag, and blood black as night oozed from his temple. Through the rag you heard his muffled pleas. Something like “please don’t do this” or “dear god, no”. But he couldn’t stop from being a lascivious scumbag, so you can’t stop defending your family. He threatens the family and our happiness, he gets justice. It’s that simple.

If I go there will be trouble, and if I stay it will be double…

No one thinks you can do it. The thought never crossed their minds. But you had to show everyone that you could hold your own, that you could contribute something that made life better.

The song weaseled in through the metal walls of the parts room in the auto shop. Its music was tinny and grating, and what lyrics you could make out seemed to mock your circumstances. You paced, swinging a large crescent wrench around you carelessly. The curved head was already adorned with drying blood. The muffled noises from behind the rag grew louder as you raised the wrench towards his head, lining it up like a batter for a pitch. This ordeal would take time to clean up, way past what your curfew allowed. But your mother would understand.

You swung.

Should I stay or should I go?