But it all changed one fateful day in his third year of middle school when Marlon took me out for a day of fun.
He never returned from that outing.
From then on, our home was filled with Dad Vincent Keaton's mournful sighs and Diane's constant berating.
As I watched the tableau of the three across the street, my feet started moving towards them, driven by an urge I couldn't resist.
Then, suddenly, I heard the screech of tires inches from my ear.
The impact of the collision sent searing pain throughout my body.
Before I could make sense of it, darkness swallowed me.
I lay there, the cacophony of honking horns and bustling footsteps fading in and out.
I had died on my eighteenth birthday, a painful and cruel end to a tragic day.
But my soul lingered on. I floated above, watching a group of strangers gather around my body, desperately trying to wake me. It struck me as somewhat amusing that these unfamiliar faces cared about my fate while my own mother, Diane, seemed completely indifferent.
I couldn't help but wonder what my parents were doing at that moment.
As those thoughts swirled in my mind, I drifted back home, only to find Diane in the kitchen, preparing a feast.