The Contract

Chapter 1 - Enigma

My eyes shot wide open. It felt as though my heart was about to burst as I inhaled, struggling to catch my breath as I remembered the episode that occurred. Petrified as I took my surroundings in, I eventually exhaled a hefty sigh of relief. It had just been a dream. Bright rays of sunlight filtered through the makeshift wall, causing me to wince, and further reminding me I was back in the real world. The fan creaked above as the wind from it roughly slapped at my face. Contemplating about the enigmatic experience I had endured both last night and a week ago, I still felt that it was too unrealistic; as if someone would be concerned about a simple college student pursuing a basketball career. I tried not to ponder it. Stretching my stiff frame as I stifled a yawn, I wasn't going to let an anomaly of a dream disrupt my daily routine.

Shaking off the last dredges of fatigue away, I stood up and took a few steps to the bathroom several feet from my hard mattress to relieve myself and to get myself cleaned up. Looking into the small, slightly cracked mirror, my blurry reflection gazed back at me with an equally careless stare. My body was by no means heavy or well-developed, it was just lean and toned. I groaned as I observed my figure and face, which never seemed to reach that ideal, optimum look you'd see in the magazines that you'd find in the nearby convenience store. Thinking about what my father told me the day before gave me a slight headache after all the lectures he'd ranted out; that I had to think before I acted - something he never did when he was a youth, and that simple matter had caused wave upon wave of financial issues to pester our family to this day. My parents always reminded me to make sure I was sure I wanted to do something before I took action, lest I regret the outcome. I started brushing my teeth.

Living in the inner-city slums which people of my ethnicity dubbed as 'the hood', basketball was my bread and butter; without it, Bradley Porter wasn't who he was. I started the sport when I was a wee boy. A tender six years of age, intrigued by the greats who had played the game, I started to practice day in and day out whenever I had the time to. It wasn't easy - dribbling and shooting the ball when my stomach was filled with nothing but air, but that's exactly what I did. Every time I went back into the house all sweaty and exhausted, I would plop down upon our tattered couch and turn on the flickering telly, excited to watch nationally televised games of basketball. Those were weary times, for both myself and my family. Because my parents were always out working odd jobs late into the night, I was always tasked with the burden of preparing food for myself, and eventually my younger siblings as well as they came into my life. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich was a staple food in our everyday mealtimes; both cheap, tasty and filling for the stomach.

I used to bear great envy for the richer boys who studied in the same school as I did. They didn't have to play at a basketball court where the paint was faded, the iron rim rusted and the wood board threatening to fall apart if just enough force was applied. I learned not to complain as a child about my upbringing and to appreciate life no matter what circumstances were thrown at me, and I have to thank my parents for instilling that motto into my heart. It was unfair to whine about my situation as my parents had it tougher. Gargling my mouth and spitting the minty toothpaste out, I set my toothbrush back in a cup on the sink. I glanced once more at the reflection of my face only to groan at the sight of yet another budding pimple ripening before hurriedly heading back inside my tiny room to get changed quickly. I did not want to chase after the bus, as my college was about two long miles away from my house. Walking distance, yes, but not my ideal way of starting the day.

As I descended down the cracked oak steps, loud sounds of shouting stemmed from inside the kitchen. I sighed once more, trying to drown out the noise that had become an integral part of my daily life. Steve, my younger brother, nodded at me in acknowledgement as I walked by his room. Most kids at the age of eleven would be brimming with life, excited by just about anything that went his way, but due to the living conditions we were dealing with and our parents constantly at each other's throats, he always had a solemn mask plastered upon his face. That made me sad just thinking about it. Acting as a guardian for both my brother and my sister wasn't easy but I had to, and because my parents were busy most of the time, my siblings grew closer to me as a result.

My thirteen year old sister - Layla - did not make life easier for our family one bit. She got her rebellious streak from our mother, who had given up on her own education to elope with my father when they were both in their senior year of high school. My parents always brought that fact up to remind us to focus on our studies and to pursue our passions, as they didn't want us to stray away from the path they envisioned for our future. Layla had been understanding about our financial situation up until she started mixing with a bunch of rich, bratty girls from the school she studied at. This made her extremely volatile and demanding, especially for branded items like the latest phone model. She always blamed our parents for getting together instead of completing college, and when the nagging and scolding got too much for her, she played the victim and cried crocodile tears. I was the only person she'd listen to now, but God knows how long that would hold up for.

I must've been overly caught up in my train of thought, because I hit my head onto the ridiculously low doorway entrance to our kitchen. Rubbing my head and wincing, the pain lasted only a second, fading away just as fast as it came. I slapped two pieces of bread onto a plate and quickly swung the fridge wide open, as I barely had time to spare before the bus arrived at our district. I hoisted the jelly jar in the air, but it seemed as though Layla had eaten it all - the jar was completely empty. She had an affinity for all things sweet, just like Steve, but she wasn't nearly half as courteous the person as my little brother was. He always inquired for my permission before doing anything.

"For goodness' sake, Layla, ask me before you touch anything!" Yelling out in irritation, I shoved the peanut butter and nothing sandwich in my mouth, chewing noisily as I grumbled to myself. A peanut butter sandwich itself was by no means as delicious as a peanut butter sandwich with jelly in it.

I sat on the kitchen counter, tapping my foot in an attempt to drown out the noise pollution. It certainly didn't help that our walls were hollow; sound easily sifted through about the house. An abrupt knocking on the door startled me, and all of a sudden my parents shut up. They too, knew that I was a basketball star. Knowing I was their ticket out of the gutters, they didn't want to scare off any possible opportunities that lay ahead for me. I hastily shuffled over to the door and swung it open, eager to see who was it this time. Surprisingly, even though I was the top player in the nation, few people ever really bothered to come to my home and discuss the details of the basketball business with me. Probably because I lived in a desolated and dangerous vicinity where if you didn't look poor, you'd get mugged.

In my doorway stood a tall and lean man in his middle age, flashing me a wane smile. His graying hair was neat and combed, just like any respectable businessman you'd see on the sidewalk. But the vibe emanating from him was rather off-putting. I couldn't quite place what it was exactly. A glint on his left wrist caught my attention, and I realized I was staring at a shiny gold watch, probably worth more than my entire home. With his right hand he clutched upon a few documents, the printing of which I couldn't quite read clearly.

"Is this the Porters' residence?" His voice rang out, a deep baritone that resonated throughout the old, dilapidated house that my family inhabited. Nodding rather nervously, I stepped aside and welcomed him in. The man didn't seem to acknowledge my basketball status or ask me if I had already signed a deal with an agent; no, he was instead inspecting every nook and cranny of the house with a look of scrutiny. I caught a glimpse of the words on the papers he was holding on to, and felt my throat clog up and my breathing became shallow. He was a house inspector! Confused as to why a house inspector had come over to the house as we didn't put it up for sale, I wedged myself between the man and the stairway, not wanting him to proceed any further in my home.

"Sir, may I ask what's your business here?"

From the corner of my eye I spotted my parents and siblings eyeing the situation quietly, clearly not wanting to get involved; they probably thought I was dealing with yet another corrupt basketball agent. The man raised an eyebrow, then narrowed his eyes.

"You should know. I received a call from you a week ago, telling me to put the house up for sale as it was, and I'll say it with your own words, 'unlivable'. If it was a prank call, I'll have you sued, Mr. Porter."

Reciprocating the man's action, I intensified my gaze back at him.

"Prove it."

He eyeballed me irritably for a few seconds, then played a recording on his phone, the latest trendy model. I expected the recording to be of the blurry sort, but as I listened to the crystal clear voice playback of the supposed incident, memories of that night flashed back to me, memories for some reason I couldn't recall.

That night, I couldn't sleep. Tossing and turning on my painfully hard mattress, it was never really easy to doze off in my house, but over the years living here, I had slowly but surely gotten used to it. Time was a foreign concept to me at that moment; I had even resorted to counting sheep or dreaming about the things I could achieve going forward in a futile attempt to drift to sleep. Seconds, minutes, perhaps even hours passed but I still did not have an ounce of drowsiness in me. It was the dead of the night, or morning, and not even a single snore could be heard from my parents' room. Tiptoeing so as not to break the fragile tranquility the night possessed, the old wooden staircase still could not help but groan at the weight of my feet as I made my way downstairs.

Hesitant to turn the lights on as rays easy filtered through the walls, I navigated to the kitchen almost blindly, led on by muscle memory. I had been lying on my bed for so long that my stomach had grown restless. Thinking about opening a tin of cookies once I reached the kitchen, I usually didn't concern myself with the expiration date as my family had grown accustomed to eating stale food. The food was still edible when expired, but drinking expired fluids earned you a free ticket to an uncomfortable bowel emptying experience. Too dark to see anything, I continued walking onward, not recalling that the distance from the stairs to the kitchen took this long. My memories were hazy; some parts of my recollection was missing from my mind, but it felt as though a switch was turned on inside of my head as I remembered calling the housing agency.

Trying to speak, no words came to mind as I merely stood there staring blankly, questioning myself for the reason of phoning the housing agency for. Mixed emotions flooded my conscience - anger, confusion, shock - but the most prominent word to describe it was disbelief. I definitely did not wish to sell the only shelter my family had. Trying to move, my feet refused to respond; it was as if my body was slowly sinking into the murky depths of quicksand. I couldn't hear myself, or anyone else speak. A migraine sprouted forth within my skull, and throbbed to the rhythm of my rapidly beating heart. Struggling to stay on my feet, I felt my consciousness slowly drift away as the man peered at me coldly.

After what seemed like eternity, I opened my eyes. Trying to take in my surroundings through blurry eyesight, I noticed the man was at the doorstep, not in my face; ushered off by my parents and siblings, who were beaming from ear to ear, extremely odd as our family was not only dysfunctional; we hardly talked together, much less smiled as a whole family. I stood up abruptly, somehow spontaneously cured from the effects of fainting, and ran past the door, determined to demand answers from the strange man; answers to satiate my growing puzzlement.

"Hey -" the voice faded from my mouth as I glanced about in agitation. The man was nowhere to be seen; where could he have gone in such a narrow street with no such alley to hide in? The only thing I could see on the empty, desolated street was a white sedan, with what seemed to be dried crimson trails staining the front of the car. Frustrated, I stormed back into the house; my family had already resumed with their daily activities. I probably would've written off this occurrence if my eyes didn't take note of the papers the man had left behind on our living room table. Taking a closer look, I find two words scribbled on the paper, 'Contract Details'. They weren't regarding housing matters, it appeared to be a basketball contract for me. But what disturbed me the most was that there were two more words scrawled translucently in what looked like fresh blood on the bottom of the paper: 'I'm Back'.