Bud's Diary Entry. By: Arisa Morgan

February 1st, 2010.

Yet another day passes in this god-forsaken hole. I've finally taken to hanging around the local colleges, watching people who have their lives planned out ahead of them, young and bright, filled to the brim with hope. This is not a word that you would often hear out of my lips, hope is not a feeling that I have experienced in decades, possibly my whole life. I can't conjure up a memory of ever having felt it, my recollections can be foggy sometimes. My name, Bud, is the first half of the beer brand Budweiser, split between me and my twin brother by our crazed alcoholic of a father. What is my brother's name? You guessed it, Weiser, known as Wei to anyone who actually dares to befriend him. My brother and I are not the type of people you would see fit to linger around for too long. For one thing, we have followed good ole dad in his footsteps, speeding to the bar every night for a 'quick' drink. This usually ends up with us passing out on the countertop and waking up at the crack of dawn to find an assortment of beer mugs on the marble. The booze would always be Budweiser, cracking us up every time we took a swig.

As you read, you are probably wondering how this drunken moron could even be bothered to pick up a pen, let alone jot down some thoughts with it, and this also puzzles me to a degree. I guess I just need to vent out all of the steam that's been building up ever since Dad threw us out of the house, when Mom decided she couldn't put up with three out of control men who stumbled in day after day looking for a. way out of their lives. At least she wasn't around long enough to see what we became: violent men with blood shot eyes and a thirst for pain roaming around, attacking any helpless victims that were sighted. That reminds me of the latest prey today ...

I had decided to allow myself a treat, stopping on the corner of the road and buying a vanilla swirl. Settling down as comfortably as any modern park bench allowed, I proceeded to gawk at the college students streaming out of the brick building. Out of nowhere, I heard a holler nearby and suddenly found myself staring into a bright mess of white. Growing enraged at whoever had deliberately pushed my face into the ice cream, I whirled around to face Wei, a sinister smile plastered across his face and bony hand pointing towards a freshman in a wheelchair. I wiped my face and surveyed him up and down, weighing the odds of tipping him, and chose to go through with it.

We slowly made our way over to the poor kid, who eventually spotted us advancing on him and poised his hands over the wheelchair's rings, ready to make an escape. He was too slow. The chair teetered on the brink of the gravel path, and crashed to the ground, emitting a sound loud enough to turn a number of heads and lying awry on its side like a dead animal. This is how we spend our time, releasing our pent-up anger on others, similar to deflating balloons that were about to pop.

We patiently waited for the crowd to thin out, leaving a few bystanders gazing in awe at the scene that was about to unfold before them. I challenged them with my gaze, and when there was a neutral response, I turned around and scanned the victim. He stared up at Wei and I with a hostile expression, fear mingling in the bright eyes, now alert. In my head, a plan was forming: a few clips to the face and groin would suffice, with the aid of Wei holding him down. Before carrying out the actions, though, I lean down and whisper in his ear:.

"You're dead to me, Dad.".

He stares, puzzled, but all too soon loses focus as the first punch lands squarely on his nose. My entire plan was carried out accordingly, and we left the cripple gasping for breath on the gravel path, a trickle of blood leading down his ruined face. I did not look back at the aftermath, but bought another ice cream cone to make up for the lost one.

Who knows, maybe next time we will be brave enough to confront the one person who inspired us to inflict our own pain on others. Maybe one day, hope will push us through to him.

Bud Wesley.