A Very Special Gift

"Alex! Get away from me! I'm sick of you always bothering me!" I pushed her out of my way as I made my way to the couch.

"Tom!" my dad got in my face. "Don't you ever push your sister!! I'm sick of you putting your hands on her!!"

Droplets of spit splashed on my face. That infuriated me a great deal. Alex ran up the stairs holding the back of her head as a little blood trickled out.

He pushed me back against the couch. He shoved me again. I hit my head.

"Stop! Stop it!!" I cried.

"You are gonna learn to keep your hands to yourself, one way or another!" He backed away, allowing me to get up. "Now, go up to your room till dinner!"

I stomped away with the worst glare on my face. I was so freaking mad. I wanted to fucking hit my dad, and hit him, and hit him...

When I was in my room, I looked at the clock. "3:45," I said.

A few minutes later, I could hear Alex talking about her grades. Oh crap! I thought.

"Tom, get down here!!"

I ran down the stairs. My dad was sitting in his chair. Alex was next to him. When I got in the living room, she left, leaving me with a snide smirk.

"Where's your grade card?" he asked.

"We haven't gotten them yet..." I replied.

"Bullshit! That's another thing; you always lie to me!!" he yelled. "Go get it!"

I was shaking with fear. I had an F in Geometry. My dad would not accept less than a B, but I had to get an F! I found my backpack next to my dresser. I searched through it and found my grade report. I slowly walked down the stairs to my steaming dad. He knew that since I tried to hide my grades from him, I had a bad grade. He snatched it from my clinched fist. His eyes sped back and forth like the wind. He began to breath very slowly and heavily. He threw it to the ground, not looking up. I looked down at him; I was getting nervous. He stood up and and then looked at me. He had the look to kill! "Get out!" he whispered.

I stared at him with a look of confusion. "What?"

"I said get out of here!" he snapped. "I don't want to see your face for the rest of the night!"

"But what about dinner?" I asked frantically.

"That's for you to figure out," he replied. "Alex and I are going out."

"But-"

"GO!" he screamed.

I ran up to my room and grabbed some money. A five. I was going to Quick Trip. I ran back downstairs with Lincoln in my pocket and my CD player in the other. I ran out the door and made the trek to the gas station.

I had pressed play on Sing by Travis and put it on repeat. It was blasting my ears with my favorite song. It helped me relax after being in pretty much any stressful situation. Not this one though; it was only working halfway.

I was coming close to the big intersection across from WalMart. The gas station was down that road. I walked along the shoulder, watching all the cars speed by. I was extremely depressed. I can't say it didn't cross my mind to jump out in the middle of oncoming traffic and end my life right there, cause I would be lying. It did race through my mind every other minute however.

I was in Quick Trip's parking lot now, and when I reached the front door, I pushed and let myself in. The layout of the place was simple. When I walked in, I saw the front counter, and then to the right were a bunch of refigerated sections and racks with various items of pleasure and joy. In front of the counter was an assortment of delicious sugary goodnesses. Down that way further, was a row of coffee and cappuchino machines. If you turn right, you would see a few Freezie machines and several different sizes of cups, from 16 oz to 52. Then a bit further, there were the fountain drinks, the delicious flowing gold, that attracts many different types of people especially in the summer, but anytime of the year really. Hundereds of dollars a day are paid to QT for their inexpensive soda by hundreds of quantity-conscious customers. Across from that, there was another counter with a machine that was constantly cooking at least two dozen plump and juicy hot dogs. They were only a dollar, and they were very good and very filling. Next to that, there were the condiments, to some people, a staple food in their diet. You know hot dogs and condiments really are not interchangable. I mean, who wants to eat ketchup?

There was a fairly large man getting himself a drink. He walked over to the lids and then over to where I was at the hot dog cooker.

"Hello," he said. He was a very friendly man.

"Hey," I replied.

He had a long gray beard and long gray hair that flowed. His eyes were a pale blue.

"How's your day been kiddo?" he asked.

"Not so great..."

"I'm really sorry about that." He opened the drawer that contained the often soggy hot dog buns and grabbed one. When he reached for a hot dog, he collapsed due to heart failure. He was rushed off to the hospital even before I got out of the gas station. After the horrible incident, I made my way to the QT parking lot and back onto the shoulder. I took a huge sip of my drink and then a large bite of my hot dog.

A minute or 2 later, I had a couple bites left. I took another bite and began chewing. I had to sneeze. I accidentally inhaled the chunk of dog and it got stuck. I tried coughing it up as I dropped my soda. I looked frantically at the passing cars; none of them would stop to help me. They were all too busy to stop their damn cars and get out and take 5 minutes out of their busy schedules to help me as I was dying. I turned red, then purple, then a dark blue and then collapsed to the ground; I passed out, only to die a minute or two later. The 44 ouncer was spilled all over the ground, bleeding into the road. Several cars ran over the stream of soda. The cup rolled into the street, as if trying to escape. Its attempt had been a waste due to the tires of busy cars. I lay there, lifeless. I got what I had secretly wanted for almost three years. Maybe not the best way to go, but nonetheless.

The funeral was, well...a funeral. Just like any other funeral. Everybody wore black. Black suits, black dresses. Alex even wore black eyeliner and lipstick, which was a bit odd. She never really hated me; but since my untimely passing, she turned goth. Her way to deal with it, I guess. My father, who was supposed to be there for me in my time of need, my darkest hour, was crushed. He had been such an ass for about 2 years, and he never had a chance to aploogize. A year before I died, I was in my Sociology class and there was a guest speaker. She was there to speak about organ donation. It really hit home, and I decided to talk to my dad about it. He refused. He said, "Why should you give someone else your organs? They're yours, they should've taken care of their own. It's just disgusting!" He knew I really wanted to donate all I could, if I were to die, but he still was stiff with his decision. However, he decided to fulfill my wish and donate everything I had to offer. I donated everything but my skin and bones basically.

My heart went to a very special person; one that I had met just 5 minutes before I died. He had a long gray beard and hair that flowed. His eyes were the palest anyone had ever seen.

The large man sat in his recliner, eating an apple. He looked down at his chest and felt his beating heart. He said a short prayer, and then looked up.

"Thank you Tom," he whispered. "Thank you so very much!"