To Dream Of Bears

I was dropped off at home on Lion St. around noon, no one was home. This was my chance to bang away at my drumkit with no interference from the folks. First, I wanted to drill a hole in my cracked cymbal to stave off the destruction of my expensive piece of shit, so where else to find a power drill but the garage, where tools are kept. I proceed to unlock the garage and lift the old splintered door above my head. The radio is on a local station and its playing Nirvana's "Lithium." "Bill must have left it on last night," I thought, knowing my dad is only human. I start to look around for the drill. Out of the corner of my eyes, to the right, I notice a human form. In a white under shirt, blue jeans, and black shoes, hangs Bill by a yellow nylon rope tied to the garage rafters. Blood and saliva are dried on the left side of his white shirt. His head tilts to the left as well, with the rope's knot directly behind his right ear. A stool was on its side below him. His face looked intensely "clammy." Terror made real.