Homecoming III

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Homecoming III

Post by Quincy Reagan on Sat Jul 01, 2017 8:31 pm

He left his car running as he sat there parked. Was this the way to go about it? A champion for nearly a month, and he still had not been able to share his glory with his children. But was this stooping to their level? Or would this be simply taking action the only way there seems to be? He contemplated driving off right then, but instead he found himself turning the ignition off. He opened the door, grabbed the title formerly sat in his passenger's seat, and began across the street.

At the door, he once again found himself hesitating. He knew all too well the emotions influencing him; he knew was going on his impulses of old. The impulses that gave him a criminal record. But still, he knocked upon the door.

It took a second, louder knock for someone to finally come to the door. When it swung open, Sheila's face immediately went into a scowl. She then rolled her eyes and went to shut the door. But Quincy's hand quickly stopped it.

Sheila
Nigga, if you don't get your crusty ass hand from off my door...

Quincy Reagan
You can't keep me away from my kids, Sheila. It's been a month.

She continued to try to force the door to close, but Quincy persisted.

Quincy Reagan
Where they at?

Sheila
Q, get from this door, forreal now.

Clint
Yo what's good down here?

Down the stairs just thirty feet from the door, Clint began to walk down the creaky wooden stairs. From what he can see, the sorry scrawny excuse for a replacement only wore a wife beater and plaid green boxers. His feet suctioned to the raggedy slides he wore, forcing a squishy-type sound out with every step he took, a sound that did nothing but irk Reagan. The homewrecker began to scratch at his belly as well, creating yet another sound that felt like it only existed to aggravate Quincy further. Quincy forced such annoyance out of his head, realizing he came to see his kids, not to start an issue.

Once Clint neared the door, the first thing he did was yawn, before beginning to scratch his corn rows as he looked at Quincy.

Clint
Ight bro, so I'm gonna need you to back off my door. I'm tryina sleep and really don't give a fuck about why you're here, you just gotta go.

"My door". Quincy's blood began to boil.

Quincy Reagan
Well, I'mma need you to mind your fucking business for once and tell me where my kids are.

Sheila
They ain't here. Bye.

She tried to close the door yet again, but his hand was ready. However, Clint took to shoving it off.

Clint
Ight, forreal nigga, back the fuck off and go home.

He snatched Quincy's title out of his hand and throws it, it nearly landing on the cement at the end of their front lawn.

Clint
And take your toy with you.

It took absolutely everything in Quincy's body not to lash out right then. In that very moment, he nearly made all his progress from the past decade meaningless. He had flashbacks of his younger days, when having someone else's blood on his knuckles was a normal day's hobby. Right then and there, he almost painted the house a very dark red.

But, as a testament to his maturation, he instead decided to turn and walk away. He grabbed the world championship and went to his car.

LATER THAT NIGHT, 1 A.M.

As he drove, nothing would calm him. All he could think of were his kids, and the two demons they were trapped with. He could only think of the last time he saw his children, and how his ex-wife refused to let them attend the night he would see himself win that title he worked his ass off for the past few months to acquire. He could only dwell on having been kept from celebrating said win with his children. She wouldn't even let them FaceTime. But they would see Clint. They see him every day. They smell his cigarettes as they poison their lungs. They would talk to the man that was the final reason they longer saw their parents together.

He anger turned to speeding. Speeding directly back to the house.

Once there, he grabbed a black hoodie kept on the backseat floor of his car and put it on so as to look anonymous. Out of the glove compartment, he pulled the pocket knife he kept inside. With it, he exited his car.

He stared at the house. Slowly, he walked toward it, shuffling the knife around in the hoodie's pocket. His anger only built as he got closer, with each step.

Then he turned to the black Lexus parked in the driveway. Clint's Lexus. He drew the knife from his pocket, and starting from the headlight, he left a deep, thick scratch to the rearlight. He did the same on the other side. He then took the knife to one of the back tires and popped it. The sound was loud, but taken by anger, he did not think to leave then and instead went and popped the other back tire. It was only once the car's alarm went blaring after he elbowed right through the driver seat's window that he finally realized he had to leave, and quickly. He ran to his car, and somehow managed to drive off before being caught.

He drove and he drove. His anger still flowed through every vein his body. He had gone backwards. It felt good. But he was ashamed. But then he was proud. He was confused. He was lost.
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Quincy Reagan

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