Weekly Free Write Scene

Free Write Scene

The Eagle sat on the long, slender brown tree branch watching me through its unusual sky-blue eyes. It felt as if someone watched me from afar from a pair of binoculars. Creepy and eerie to the point a shiver ran down my spine. I jumped up from my swing porch and rushed inside, slamming my front door, and locking the deadbolt.

“Ronald is dead.” I whispered into the empty room, taking in two slow deep breaths, staving off the panic attack I felt tugging at me. “Ronald has been dead for five years.” I reminded myself a second time. “You killed him. You shot him dead the last time he invaded your home in Texas.”

I shoved the image of the blood gushing out of his chest and over his sides onto my shiny hardwood floors. It’d been a long time since those images had rushed my mind. It was understandable why they crashed to life then, but I didn’t need them bringing me to a standstill or causing my life to spiral out of control again. I’d spent two long years trying to regain my life after that awful night. I’d spent five days in the hospital after Ronald’s beating that horrid night.  The law in Texas tried to blame me for killing him, even though the evidence supported my self-defense. My father had hired the best lawyer in the world to defend me and he got me off, but not until after a yearlong trial, which would never had happened if Ronald hadn’t been the son of the Senator of Texas.

A soft knock on my door caused me to jerk away from the door all but leaping two feet into the air. Who in the world could it be? There’d been no crunching of gravel. No closing of car doors. No clomping of feet on the front porch. Where had someone came from?

“Who is it?” My voice came out as more of a croak.

“You have no reason to fear, Mr. Jameson.”

No one around here knew me by my given birthname. I’d changed it when I moved to some small town at the foot of some mountain in North Carolina. I wasn’t even sure of the name of the town I lived in. That’s how little I mingled among it. I knew the closest biggest city I lived near was some four hours away and that’s how I liked it. My nearest neighbor was half an hour away and I loved that. So where had this intruder of my space came from.

“I am here at the behest of Mr. Chamberland.”

That was a name I knew all too well. He’d been my lawyer and became a great friend of mine. Our close quarter work over that year and his aid in getting me help with my PTSD and depression was more of a help than my father had been to me. Oh, my father tried to aid me, but everything he did seemed to make things worse. He seemed to think telling me to get over it would work. It was laughable and aggravating at the same time.

I slid the chain across the door, still a bit caution because I didn’t know the man outside my door he could be anyone who knew to toss around the name of my friend and unlocked the door, opening it just a bit.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Andre Thomas, I am an associate of Mr. Chamberland. Mr. Chamberland sent me here to watch over you because there has been a bounty put out on you.”