[ WP ] You find a genie in a bottle , in the house of the person who just murdered your family .

1/2 
 
 I'm shaking. I can hardly see through the red in my vision, my throat is dry, and I can not stop shaking. But this is his house. 
 
 It's a normal Tuesday night dinner. Mom, dad, and Sarah, my sister, licking our plates clean of my moms special spaghetti sauce, what she always makes on Tuesday night. Well, used to make. Damn these shivers. We said our prayer, the same prayer my fathers family passed down for generations. We said our thanks, and I got up to clean my mothers mess, she was always so messy. At least I gave her my thanks, because that was my last look at them alive. I put my back against the swinging door into the kitchen, and I see all three are lifeless in their chairs. I drop my plates, run to the table, and sob. Through my sobs, I see a hooded stranger staring through the window. That glimpse was enough to send him running, the fucking bastard who killed my blood. Do n't jump to conclusions, Matt. God damn it I knew it was him though. 
 
 I gave no second thought. I ran after him as fast as my legs would take me. Through my swollen eyes, I was able to follow him, to this shit house. Actually, it is n't so bad, not as bad as I'd expect the murderer of my own flesh and blood. It's an apartment on the first floor, and I am outside looking in to this dirt bags home. Hopefully I'll get the same pleasure he had of watching someone die tonight. 
 
 But there's no sign of him. I watched him. I WATCHED him bolt through this door. He turned on a bright, fluorescent light. And he's gone. 
 
 Through my shakes, shivers, sobs, and sheer terror, I must avenge my family's death. I peer through his open sliding back door. There is a smell of burnt popcorn, burnt hair, burnt something. But no sign of smoke or fire. Something strange happened here. 
 
 I shake off any thought besides revenge, and search for his whereabouts. He seems to travel. There are pictures of him, or who I assume is him, with a beautiful women strewn about the house. They are in front of the Roman Coliseum, the Pyramids, the Taj Mahal. But he looks almost as young as my father did, however us Hargraves are known to have young faces. 
 
 He's organized as well. Portions of his apartment are dedicated to the places he's been. The Indian shrine he arranged catches my attention. My steps are careful, and quiet, but I ca n't take my eyes off his face in that picture. My anger builds, but I step on something metal, and clamber to the floor. In a panic, I check my surroundings. No sign of anyone. 
 
 This damned cup - or I thought it was just a cup. It's ornate, is it real gold? It fits in both of my hands. It's shaped like a tea kettle. Purple and red jewels surround the top mouth of the kettle, the top is locked tight, it did n't budge when I tripped over it. The handle loops elegantly up, out, and finds the form close to the bottom of the kettle. The spout is long, and shaped like an elephants trunk. I get a shiver down my spine. The kettle trembles in my hands. 
 
 That smell again. Burnt something. With the kettle in my hands, I look to see where this smell is emanating. There goes my vision again. Wait, I'm not seeing red or sobbing. I look down to the kettle. Smoke is pouring out of the spout, it gets hot in my hands and the jewels shine a fluorescent glow. It trembles, and I almost forgot to drop it before a small explosion occurs. I'm bathed in smoke and blue light, I take cover behind the couch protecting myself from something not of this world. 
 
 My knees are tucked trembling, my eyes are buried in them. I hear a boom of laughter echoing as if we are in a cavern, but no, we are only in this murderers fog and light filled apartment. 
 
 `` I have never been summoned so soon after another! Who beckons my services?'' 
 
 I'm still holding my legs to my face. 
 
 `` You, eating your knees behind that chair. Show your face to me.'' 
 
 I have to comply. My knees nearly buckle as I stand and turn to face this... thing. I see nothing but blue light for a moment, then his form comes together. He is baby blue. His bald head touches the ceiling. The features of his face are more inviting than his voice. Round cheeks, smile as bright as himself, and squinting, happy eyes. His upper body is muscular, strong shoulders, and his biceps flex as his arms are crossed. His defined torso comes down to a red cloth belt, but his legs are wisps of blue smoke, as dense as rain clouds where his legs should be. 
 
 `` You're not real.'' I squeak through my dry throat. 
 
 His laugh booms again. I step back. `` I am as real as you, child. You have rubbed my vessel, therefore I appear to you.'' His face is friendly, he ca n't be lying. But he also ca n't be real. 
 
 I regain my posture, and ball my fists, if not but to seem confident. `` What's your name, if you're real?'' 
 
 His smile widens, and he shakes his head and says `` I have no name. I only have purpose. You have released me from my prison, and so soon after I have been put back. You may now have three wishes.'' He holds up three massive fingers, and his smile returns. 
 
 `` So you're a genie? In a bottle?'' Since when have childhood stories become reality? But then again, when does your family drop dead with no sign of injury at once? 

