"Lukas stop, let go," they are arguing again, just outside of our apartment in the hallway. Lukas, the husband, is a grizzled looking man, with a face full of stubble, and a scar he won by taking a fragment of a grenade to the face in Iraq. So he says, to my Mom.

He's the kind of man who dresses disheveled, in a pair of baggy cargos, and a loose t-shirt. While his wife ,Elaine, looks exhausted like she's been put through the ringer, dark circles under her eyes, and just as disheveled as he looks.She's wearing a green dress that's too big for her.

He's placing his hand on her bicep tightly, while she barely puts any effort to squirm out. He notices me watching, while I'm also fiddling with my keys to open our front door.

He clicks his tongue.

"Mind your own business," he barks at me.

"Sorry," I mumble. I am a hypocrite. I can stand up to the man on the bus, but in our own hallway I cannot stand up to a man abusing his wife. I am a coward too because I only fantasize the idea that he will get what he deserves. Managing to quickly get into our apartment and closing the door quickly, while locking it.

I take the pen out of my pocket once again. This is my weapon. Even if my weapon is nothing more than a pen and a journal of all the things I wish I could happen to people like that.

Slipping my shoes off and squirreling my way into my bedroom. Bob fiercely guards my window. Which journal should I choose for this occasion? Hmm. This one. It is made to look like a tattered leather book, with a strap to hold it tight. It could be someone's personal account, maybe of the person who lost this pen.

Taking the journal off the shelf.

Setting it on my desk, the one my aunt gave me when she was going to throw it out. It's an antique, made of oak, and has those little cupboards you can pull vertically and not horizontally. What was his name again? I remember we once had to hand them mail that was accidentally sent to us. It was:

Lukas Holt

That sounds about right. I am remembering the name behind a plastic film. He should. I hear them shouting again. Arguing in fact;

He finds himself sitting back in his armchair, after screaming at Elaine again.

The countless times I have heard the creak of that armchair as he plops into it after they shout. Listening to their footsteps. He's going to get a drink soon. I hear the armchair creak, today is relatively quiet. Usually they shout at each other nearly all afternoon, someone will throw dishes, or knock down a chair. Today they seem exasperated, exhausted from their countless shouting matches earlier this week.

He decides to get himself a drink, as he usually does.

Then what?

I can't help but smile. The very thought makes me feel better. Happier in fact. It sounds like there is a commotion happening in the apartment. The clattering of furniture. Lukas' heavy footsteps storm around the apartment, while Elaine only lets out a sort of gasp in shock. He utters something, though it sounds muffled for once, "You...." silence, "bitch."

I have to admire this pen though. It's probably been one of the better pens I have come across. It's ink glides across the paper and the ink that does come out, appears in a nice, vibrant teal. The fate I wrote for Lukas isn't enough. It really isn't. It feels tame in comparison to some fates I could think of for him. Though I think it's the most poetic way to go. It isn't like any of this will come to fruition. It's just my fantasies.

My fantasies about the world and wishing those who were unjust, got what they deserved. The world can be so cruel to the Charles of the world. The people who do their best, who are waiting for a hero. They always end up suffering at the hands of universal cruelty. Some die younger than they should have. Some do the right thing after the right thing and die. It's people like Lukas, it's cruel people, probably worse than Lukas who deserve the most horrific deaths imaginable.

I cannot believe I found a pen like this just lying around in a bin of pens. Who would drop such a thing? It writes well, its ink glides, it's barrel is immaculate. The front door opens. Mom? Home at this hour. Leaving my bedroom, she is slipping off her flats.

"Thought I'd join you for lunch," Mom smiles, "I have to get back to work soon. But I have about thirty minutes."

"I can make you a sandwich," I offer, hurrying my way into the kitchen.

"You don't have to do so," Mom reassures me, "But I appreciate it."

"Well, I'm already here," I open the fridge, looking at her, "Guess what I found."

Mom looks curious while accepting the ingredients I hand her, "What?"

I show her the pen. Her eyes light up, but she looks a little concerned, "How much did that cost you?"

"Nothing, it was dropped," I tell her, "And Richard said I could have it."

"That's nice of him," she nods, "Turkey sandwiches."

"Oo yum, we have a swiss cheese as well," I tell her.

"Very yum,"

"I was thinking of attempting to see if Charles wanted to come over," I tell her.

"Isn't he the kid who fled yesterday?"

"Yes, but maybe if I explain, he won't be as afraid," I nod.

"You just have a talent, honestly people are so sensitive these days about these sort of things,"

"You don't find it odd?"

Mom shakes her head no, while spreading mayo on her bread, "Of course not sweetheart. Men like Stephen King get famous for that sort of thing. I find people's reaction to it odd. You're my little morbid prince." Mom places a comforting hand on mine, "It's people who don't get you."