To Whom It May Concern:, M.J. Garrett [phonics readers .TXT] 📗

DEDICATION

This is dedicated to my friends and family. To my son and daughter, I love you. To my friends that believed in my creativity and urged me to pursue my goals and dream, thank you. To every person that has ever questioned purpose, you are not alone.


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank my Son, Daughter, loved ones, family, and friends. Thank you, Devre Bain, for the art work used for the cover. Thanks to everyone who showed support and love.

To Whom It May Concern:
By: Merlin Garrett

Preface

Life is a chaotic mess. Pushed around by circumstance and fear, I find solace in the comfort of routine. The guessing and adapting takes years away from you, much like what the surgeon general says about cigarettes or Dr. Phil says about stress. Wrinkles around the eyes start to define your face with age. The smell of menthol and the cracking of tobacco and rice paper become your familiar surroundings. Change, the one thing the world has to offer that is constant.

I stand here wearing my black suit. Adorned with a white button up shirt and a black necktie, I find myself standing in the same spot as I did when I was a kid. Looking up to the apartment window of the place I used to call home, I smile. The silver rimmed pilot shades hide my weary wrinkled eyes from the sun that sets, leaving just a sliver of light shining between the naked dead trees that line the apartments behind me. With just a hint of the evening shining through the window of my child home, I take a deep breath to gain my composure.

How does one get to this point? I take the shades off to reveal my tired watered eyes accented by the crow’s feet and intense hatred. This place was once my prison. This place was once my home.

Change, as inevitable as it may be, has created a sort of rebellion in me. It has created a thirst for things hoped for and a thirst for a quietness that the world has seemed to forgotten. Change has become the one thing that has taken my desire to live. Change has taken my peace, my comfort, and my love. Change has become my enemy, while routines have become my sanity.

Slowly, I walk toward the door of this wretched place. The smoke from my cigarette wraps around my face as I put the shades back over my eyes. Each step, accented by the sound of the wind softly whipping my suit coat behind me and wrapping my necktie around my chest, was a step closer to closure; a finale. The soft quiet sound of the city began to fade to silence as my tattooed hand reaches to the back of my pants. The cold metal of my pistol’s rough grip feels at home as my fingers slowly begin to wrap around the handle. With my left hand, I take the cigarette from my mouth and carelessly fling it to a resting spot in the middle of the parking lot. Slowly, pull the cool menthol into my lungs.

The sound of kids playing on the playground grow quiet and begin to play in slow motion as all the sounds of the earth begin to fade. The sound of my breathing becomes louder in my head as the corners of my mouth begin to form a revengeful grin. Each kid stops to watch me walk through the parking lot towards the only window where the sun still touches through the trees. Each kid, seemingly unfazed by the idea that something bad was about to happen, watched as they begin to disappear like ghosts from the past. Their playground chants and laughter drift through the parking lot as if they were floating in pause as each face faded away, holding the same grin on their face that I had on mine. Closure; the entire world waiting for closure.

Pulling the two toned pistol from behind my back, my tattooed hand snugged around the rough grip. Today is either the first day of the rest of my life or last day of a life not worth living. Today is my future. Today, I become the man I never wanted to be. Today, I am the executioner, his future, and his god.

My flapping garments come to a steady halt and fall into place as I enter the stairwell that shields me from the wind. As I cautiously climb the steps, the smell of menthol fills my nose. The sound of a creaking door slowly opening urges me to bring my pistol up to meet my left hand.

As I quickly follow the pistol around the corner of the stairwell, I am confused by the sight of the front door slowly swinging open. I quickly rush through the door as the sound of me breathing gets louder by the moment. The smell of a burning cigarette filled the room, letting me know that I was not alone in this rundown shitty old apartment. The muscles in my arms begin to tense up as I glide through the living room.

As I pass through the living room, I can hear the yelling from the ghosts of my past. The familiar voice of my step dad and crying children bring flashes of memories like a projector on the wall; memories of my mother laying on the floor smiling as she melts into the high that she injects into her arm. My hands become tense, as my finger slowly slides onto the trigger. I follow the pistol into the kitchen and down the hallway. The projector flashes memories of each room as I check for life in this desolate apartment. No one…it’s empty.

One cigarette, filling the room with the stench of tobacco and menthol, sat on the counter top placed neatly in an ashtray. With an inch of ash still clinging to the red glow of burning tobacco, I notice the lipstick on the filter of the abandoned cigarette. A thin small string of smoke slowly lifted toward the ceiling and disappeared into nothing. The ashtray was sitting on the corner of a neatly written letter that was placed there for me to find.

“To Whom It May Concern:”


CHAPTER 1

I wish I had an amazing story of how great growing up was for me. Stories about how my dad and I would go to the carnivals and public pools. Maybe stories about how fishing trips turned into adventures. I wish I could say that every year at Christmas, me and my family would gather around the piano in our holiday knit sweaters and sang Christmas carols about how our Lord Jesus Christ was brought to this earth. Songs about how he was born in a manger because there was no room for him in the inn. Maybe even hot chocolate and marsh mellows could have warmed our stomachs as mother, aunts, and grandmother baked turkey and stuffing, leaving the smell of amazing in our nose for days to come.

I wish I had stories about how my father and mother were following me down the third baseline, running faster than I could while in their excitement, yelling for me to slide home to complete the infield homerun and winning the big game in the bottom of the ninth inning. Maybe they would buy the cheap worthless baseball cards made by our team sponsors. I could be standing in the batter’s box smiling and they could send them to family and friends; bragging of my heroics with pride.

I wish I had stories of waking up in the middle of the night, scared from the loud thunder. Stories of how I would run down the hallway and jump in my parent’s bed and they would kiss my forehead and promise that everything was going to be okay. Maybe even mother could pull my face into her chest and gently stroke my head as she squeezed me tightly, protecting me from my own fear. For some, normalcy is just a story that very few tell, but for most of us, it’s the very thing that everyone else has…just not you.

*
I wasn’t born anywhere exotic. I was born in Austin. I didn’t spend much time there, so there really is nothing to tell...nor could I even be able to. The only real childhood home that I can remember was a small apartment complex in the heart of the small run down factory town in Arkansas. In this town, your name means everything. Who your parents were or the name you claimed made the difference of varsity sports and detention hall; cheerleader girlfriends or homely ordinary girls that helped you with your homework; party invitations where kissing and fondling were involved or study group invites that you knew kissing wouldn't be on the agenda.

New businesses would come into town hoping to open up a new product, but most would leave town as fast as they came in. Everyone in town smiled, but no one really meant it. The town had its own secrets; secrets that weren’t meant to be shared with anyone who didn’t grow up there.

Mr. and Mrs. Johnson lived in the nicest house in the nicest part of town with manicured yards and nicely paved streets and driveways. Everyone knew that the smile they carried into Sunday morning church services was just as fake as the lesson given by the alcoholic preacher man with his sadistic addiction to young children getting beat while being strapped to a makeshift cross. Rubber balls locked in their mouths by leather straps wrapped around their little head. He taught that hell was just a blink away but lived like he had plenty of time.

The Johnsons owned 3 banks…the only 3 banks in the small town. They also owned 2 car dealerships…which were exactly half of the amount of dealerships in our small town. Mr. Johnson had a long-lasting affair with Mrs. Johnson’s Sister. Mrs. Johnson had a long-lasting affair with her stepson, who was 2 years older than her and was the youth pastor at the church. Everyone had secrets. No one had secrets. Everyone was happy. No one was happy.

Mrs. Galloway was a junior high science teacher. Her husband was the swim coach for the junior high swim team. Mr. Galloway and a 14 year old student were spending their extra practice time fucking in his office. The 14 year old was Mrs. Galloway’s number one student and won every science fair that they entered. Mrs. Galloway wondered how it was that the 14 year old was able to please a man in his late 30’s, especially when he would go limp every single time she would wrap her thin lips around him. She always turned a blind eye to the