
Monsters
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That hideous beast. It murdered my best friend one New Year’s Eve, leaving his bruised, punctured corpse to rot all week on the floor of a Malibu drug den. He died steps from the same sandy beach where, as blood brothers with matching bowl cuts and our third-grade imaginations, we’d once frolicked morning to night, burying treasures at the foot of a rocky cove. The aroma of embers crackling in a nearby bonfire signaled it was time for supper.
Now I’m haunted by a different scent. A stench, really. One that lingered like a fume well after Scotty’s interment. It was a day of reckoning, an unearthly event that, ever since, has served as a line of demarcation between the rebellious child I was and the man I’d have to become.
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