Trent Kinged Me

"Damn"

A Quiet Suburban Night

Darkness descends on a quiet cul-de-sac. Cold winds linger outside the suburban homes.

Families rest peacefully, children tucked in, and the dog snuggled at the foot of the bed.

One particular house has no children, no dog, no mini-van. Only Trent King and the habitual female companion. Next to a beer bottle, the clock, illuminated in red, reads one-thirty. Aside from a dim light in a hallway, Trent’s residence dwells in dark.

There’s a disturbance. A doorbell. Ringing incessantly.

Trent’s eyes slowly blink open, his head lifting slightly. Realizing the head of a brunette, deep in slumber, lies on his arm, he slowly drags it from beneath her, slipping out of the bed. He grabs his boxers and wife-beater, quickly tossing them on.

He stumbles from his room and down the steps, still much asleep. He walks up to the white French-style doors, drawing the drapery back to see the guest. There’s a hint of familiarity, so he opens the door.

“Yeah?” Trent asks, holding onto the door handle for support.
“I’m pregnant.” She says.

His eyes open fully, shooting down to her bulging stomach and then to her face. Christian.

That shit ain’t mine. “What?” What he actually blurts.
“I’m pregnant, Trent.”

Trent’s hand releases the door handle. His feet seem to lose all power, caving beneath him, as he faints and falls to the floor. His head hits the hardwood, rendering him unconscious.

---

His eyes drag open, his sight quite blurry at first, but soon the face of Beatriz Batista becomes clear.

This is fuckin’ déjà vu. He remembers waking up on the floor, seeing her face, only a few months ago.

She mutters some words, pretty inaudible to Trent, but she helps him up, throwing some clothes on him and hustling him to the car. Forcing him into the passenger’s seat, she takes the driver’s seat, starts the car and quickly peels out of the drive-way and out onto the road.

She talks to him, but her words float into nothingness before they reach his ears. He glances up, noticing it’s daytime. He must’ve been out since last night, he thinks. He wonders what happened to the brunette. He could care less about what happened to Christian…

He wonders if his door was open all night and that’s how Beatriz got in. He glances towards her, but she’s not there. She’s gone, completely.

“Oh, shit!”

He grabs the wheel, quickly climbing into the driver’s seat.

“What the fuck?” He looks around, before pulling over.

He steps out of the car, pacing in frustration. He breathes, counts, anything to try to calm himself. Finally, somewhat composed he notices something behind him. A noise, a horn, something approaching.

He swings around, meeting a blazing truck. He tries his best to get out of the way, but his efforts are of no use.

He wakes in his bed, panting, sweating. The light of morning shiningly dimly through his window. Aside from him, his bed is empty.

The brunette walks out of the bathroom, clothed and poised for escape.

He’s been having awful dreams lately. Some in which he drinks himself to death. Some in which he beats the living shit out of Stu-E Price, Channon Roe, and others. The names don’t matter. The faces don’t matter. The only thing of relevance is the manner in which he does it. He ends up with blood coating most of his body, only to wake up and have nothing but beads of cold sweat coat him.

And then, there are the dreams where he’s visited by ex-girls, most of the time, these visits leading to his demise.

He sighs. “Damn.”
“You okay?” The brunette asks.
He looks up, his head aching. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
She mutters something, then a little louder, “I had fun last night.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Well, um, bye.” She heads for the door.
“Wait…Did I use a condom?” He doesn’t remember.
“Yeah…”
“Okay.”

She leaves and Trent slowly drags his legs from beneath the sheets, stepping down onto the floor at the side of his bed. He raids his nightstand drawer for an aspirin. No luck.

Shit.

Climbing back into bed, he grabs the beer from the nightstand, downing the last of it in a single gulp.


	"Damn" A Quiet Suburban Night Darkness descends on a quiet cul-de-sac. Cold winds linger outside the suburban homes. Families rest peacefully, children tucked in, and the dog snuggled at the foot of the bed. One particular house has no children, no dog, no mini-van. Only Trent King and the habitual female companion. Next to a beer bottle, the clock, illuminated in red, reads one-thirty. Aside from a dim light in a hallway, Trent’s residence dwells in dark. There’s a disturbance. A doorbell. Ringing incessantly. Trent’s eyes slowly blink open, his head lifting slightly. Realizing the head of a brunette, deep in slumber, lies on his arm, he slowly drags it from beneath her, slipping out of the bed. He grabs his boxers and wife-beater, quickly tossing them on. He stumbles from his room and down the steps, still much asleep. He walks up to the white French-style doors, drawing the drapery back to see the guest. There’s a hint of familiarity, so he opens the door. “Yeah?” Trent asks, holding onto the door handle for support. “I’m pregnant.” She says. His eyes open fully, shooting down to her bulging stomach and then to her face. Christian. That shit ain’t mine. “What?” What he actually blurts. “I’m pregnant, Trent.” Trent’s hand releases the door handle. His feet seem to lose all power, caving beneath him, as he faints and falls to the floor. His head hits the hardwood, rendering him unconscious. --- His eyes drag open, his sight quite blurry at first, but soon the face of Beatriz Batista becomes clear. This is fuckin’ déjà vu. He remembers waking up on the floor, seeing her face, only a few months ago. She mutters some words, pretty inaudible to Trent, but she helps him up, throwing some clothes on him and hustling him to the car. Forcing him into the passenger’s seat, she takes the driver’s seat, starts the car and quickly peels out of the drive-way and out onto the road. She talks to him, but her words float into nothingness before they reach his ears. He glances up, noticing it’s daytime. He must’ve been out since last night, he thinks. He wonders what happened to the brunette. He could care less about what happened to Christian… He wonders if his door was open all night and that’s how Beatriz got in. He glances towards her, but she’s not there. She’s gone, completely. “Oh, shit!” He grabs the wheel, quickly climbing into the driver’s seat. “What the fuck?” He looks around, before pulling over. He steps out of the car, pacing in frustration. He breathes, counts, anything to try to calm himself. Finally, somewhat composed he notices something behind him. A noise, a horn, something approaching. He swings around, meeting a blazing truck. He tries his best to get out of the way, but his efforts are of no use. He wakes in his bed, panting, sweating. The light of morning shiningly dimly through his window. Aside from him, his bed is empty. The brunette walks out of the bathroom, clothed and poised for escape. He’s been having awful dreams lately. Some in which he drinks himself to death. Some in which he beats the living shit out of Stu-E Price, Channon Roe, and others. The names don’t matter. The faces don’t matter. The only thing of relevance is the manner in which he does it. He ends up with blood coating most of his body, only to wake up and have nothing but beads of cold sweat coat him. And then, there are the dreams where he’s visited by ex-girls, most of the time, these visits leading to his demise. He sighs. “Damn.” “You okay?” The brunette asks. He looks up, his head aching. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She mutters something, then a little louder, “I had fun last night.” “Yeah, me too.” “Well, um, bye.” She heads for the door. “Wait…Did I use a condom?” He doesn’t remember. “Yeah…” “Okay.” She leaves and Trent slowly drags his legs from beneath the sheets, stepping down onto the floor at the side of his bed. He raids his nightstand drawer for an aspirin. No luck. Shit. Climbing back into bed, he grabs the beer from the nightstand, downing the last of it in a single gulp.