“You’re up?”

Geoffrey didn’t have the strength to lift his eyelids. After almost half a day on the cold concrete floor, he felt even closer to death.

“I can see your eyes moving. Good evening, Geoffrey.”

Hani.

“I made SpaghettiOs. Get off your ass and fill up. We have shit to do.”

The smell of processed tomato sauce suddenly entered Geoffrey’s nostrils. He couldn’t bear to inhale more than he needed; it wasn’t stuffing his mouth he was worried about, it was the opposite.

“Get me a bucket...quick,” Geoffrey muttered, his eyes now wide open.

“Fuck, hold on…” Hani exclaimed as she was interrupted by the pale watery bile that exited Geoffrey’s mouth.

Contracting violently, forcing everything up and out, his face was now white with sweat beading down his forehead. Geoffrey lurched sideways, retching, balling up into a fetal position. Vomit continued spewing out of his mouth. The pungent stench filled the room as he heaved even though there was nothing left to go.

“Dude, you’re cleaning that fucking mess up,” said Hani in a nasal voice, two fingers clamping her nose shut.

“You better get that cut checked out,” she continued as she left the common area to wash her hands, “it looks pretty bad.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Geoffrey looked down. His wound was firmly wrapped in bandages, orangish iodine seeping through the gauze.

Hani must’ve done this.

“Thanks,” Geoffrey replied to Hani’s request, “I’ll see Quincy later.”

“How’d it go last night?” she mumbled, with a mouthful of the tomato mush.

Hani now sat across Geoffrey, trying to not to let the puddle of puke ruin her meal.

“Dunno.”

“What do you mean?” she replied, a puzzled frown hung on her face.

“I don’t remember. I woke with this bitch of a headache, and the last thing I know… I think I stuck a knife in my leg.”

“That’s where you got that from? So much for battle scars, honey.”

Geoffrey shot an irritated look at Hani, “Shut up and help me up, would you?”

Ignored, Geoffrey wiped at his mouth, an acidic aftertaste lingering under his tongue. He grabbed ahold of the crate, trying to balance himself off the ground. He finally got up, retreated wearily along to the bathroom. He unbuttoned his shirt. Hawaiian, Geoffrey was a man of peculiar and questionable tastes. His jeans were sitting in the sink, thanks to Hani’s treatment. He slid his boxer briefs down to his ankles, his back aching as he bent over and crackling as he straightened up. Naked, he stared into a murky mirror, yellowing from grime and decades of neglect; a man stared back at him.

Bloodshot eyes on a pale face. His cheekbones gave him an almost skeletal look. A scraggy beard clung to his face in clumps like moss on a dry rock. His lips were chapped, his nose arched slightly and his forehead wrinkled as he stared precariously at himself.

Sick of himself, he climbed into the shower.

Hani stomped her way to the bathroom entrance, annoyed, “Close the damn door, prick.”

Grabbing mop and a bucket, she whammed the door shut.

Water ran down his back, his shoulder blades protruded, and his chest sunken. Geoffrey had never kept in shape. To him, appearances didn’t matter. It was all a farce and trying to look good was a waste of time. Why look good when there’s nothing to look good for? It was a very cynical way of living but it was effective. Effective for what he did for a living.