The rain rushed down the rusty piping of the Robinsons’ roof. Geoffrey was in a deep sleep, haphazardly, in his bed; his mother closing shut the worn-out picture book she had just finished reading to him.
Leaving a kiss on his bruised forehead, she slowly left the boy’s bedroom - letting a sliver of light enter through the partially closed door.
“Is he asleep?” asked Richard, Geoffrey’s father.
“Yeah, just a moment ago.”
“Janice, we need to talk.”
Richard had a sombre look on his face. A look that hasn’t left since his wife caught him on top of his teaching assistant.
“Look, Richard, it’s final…”
“Shut up!” ejected Richard, slamming his fists against the coffee table. The loud thunder overlapping with the sound of Richard’s fists.
“You’re gonna wake Geoffrey.”
***
Geoffrey wearily stretched his arms, feeling adrift. His throat was burning; his temple throbbed. He rolled his tongue around, lubricating the scaly walls of his inner cheek. With no recollection of the previous night, he gently lifted himself off the torn leather sofa - only to find himself rolling off the edge. He dropped hard, his torso slightly missing the cheap bottle of supermarket whiskey that stood firmly below.
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It was morning, yet it almost didn’t matter. Synthetic light seeped through the metal blinds. Sunlight was a luxury; accommodating those who inhabited society’s polar demographics - poor enough to live further away or rich enough to live further above.
What the fuck happened?
Groaning, Geoffrey slowing regained his balance. He grasped at loose straws, trying to remember what got him into this state.
“I can’t keep doing this,” he mumbled as he grabbed the small blade lying on the wooden crate next to him. Solidified blood caked its dull edges.
He brought the nine-inch dagger to the sink, a sanctuary to all his unwashed dinnerware. Geoffrey slowly turned the faucet knob. A slurry of rust, grime and sediment waded through the tap; it took a few second for the maroon to fade. The now-wet blood rubbed off the remains of an old plaid shirt. The blade, resembling nothing sharp, had seen better days.
Fuck.
A sharp pang shot up his leg. Geoffrey looked down his jeans, exploring a deep gash that painted his right calf red. Perhaps this was where his steel friend went last night. He looked closer, lifting his thighs up to see where the damage exactly was. Pus formed along the crevices. Squeezing the wound shut with his trembling fingers, he set his foot back down. He wobbled towards the medical cabinet, hoping to find more oxycodone - candy to the child.
Unable to locate his painkillers, Geoffrey was finding it terribly hard to stand. He had no choice but to face the pain. Raw and weeping flesh in various shades of pink and red, the gash was just one of many ailments Geoffrey felt that morning. He staggered back to the sofa, the whiskey bottle was his bittersweet remedy.
The golden-brown liquor hit Geoffrey’s leg; a paroxysm of agony triggered a guttural cry.
“Arrggh! Shit! Shit!”
Envelopes of air escaped his mouth as he panted and trembled with discomfort. It had a raw quality, the realness of a person consumed by a pain that knew no end or limit. Entranced, Geoffrey slipped back into unconsciousness.