"Yawwwnn," I stretched my arms wide.
Peeks of the morning sun poked through the small tears in my ratted shade.
A familiar smell hit my nostrils, a stale, rotting wood smell, drafting from deep inside of the dirty walls.
Thousands of dust motes stood dead in the air, a thick, muggy fog, completely visible even without the help of the streaming sun.
The room is suffocated by a complete and utter silence, as if all other earthly life suddenly no longer exist overnight, like they never lived in the first place.
No birds were singing, no were roaches squeaking, nothing, not even my heartbeat was registered.
The kind of quiet that, makes, your, lungs... shallow... and... your... thoughts...
Quiet...
…
*INHALE*
I like mornings best, because that's when the sun can reach my room.
I had a light, high up in my room, it's useless body still hanging from an old solid ceiling fan, but the light bulb burnt out, and my lonely mattress isn't tall enough to switch it with a new one.
I stood up, still dressed from the night before, I've even got my shoes on.
I carefully watched the ground as I walked to the kitchenette, carefully sidestepping any needles or broken glass. Kitchenette means little kitchen.
Getting a needle stuck in your toe is never fun even with my shoes on, so I don't ever take them off, my adult size fourteen Birkenstocks, about two sizes too big.
Luckily it's morning, so I can see the ones in my room, except the ones hiding inside the carpet, which are most.
I've got another pair of shoes, white converse I took from a goodwill last weekend, but they're a little tight on my toes, so I don't like to wear them a lot.
I don't really like wearing the Birkenstocks either, but I have to.
I think they used to be my dad's, I guess he had big feet, because they don't really fit me, even though I've got pretty big feet too.
They probably look like his.
That's about all I know about him, my dad's got big feet. I can't tell what other features my dad gave me, because my mom's face is all screwy and I can't if she's got blue or green eyes, even from up close.
When I say screwy, I mean like she's wearing a mask that's all twisted and tightly screwed to her face, twisted like a screw.
I walked past the bright red shower curtain blocking the entrance to our tiny bathroom, slowly stepping my way to the kitchenette.
She used to be beautiful, once.
And then her face got all screwy sometime after dad left us. Or maybe dad left us because he thought mom wasn't beautiful anymore.
Maybe dad left because mom started using, maybe mom started using because dad left, I don't know, I don't really remember that part.
I pulled back the door to the lukewarm fridge,
She doesn't talk much anymore, she just sorta sits there in her room. I bring food in if she ends up staying for more than a day, and she sometimes says stuff when I feed her.
She's says stuff like,
"Are you cleaning your room, Nate?"
"Are you brushing your teeth, Nate?"
"Are you taking care of yourself, Nate?"
"I love you, Nate, did you know that?"
In her nasty, sharp, killer throat. Every word caught against her dull blades, and doubles as a raspy echo before peacefully floating out of her mouth.
Every time she speaks, I can feel her voice claw down the surface of my back, forcing my body to tightly fold over itself, like a dying roach, or like my chest is seeking out the comfort of my penis.
he he. A small laugh, quickly snuffed out in the cold, suffocatingly lifeless house.
I wish my mom wouldn't try to talk to me, because I can't ever bring myself to say something back, but it doesn't really matter anyway, because I don't know what I'd tell her if I could.
I reached for the nearly empty jar of mayonnaise, and with my blackened, dirty fingers and palm, scooped a big scoop into my mouth.
I'll be clean soon soon enough, so I don't really think it really matters that much, plus it's not like there's anyone else in this house.
My sticky white fingers webbed and desperately reached their sticky white arms for each other as I unfolded my pointer out to itch my forehead.
Usually, I make a sandwich for breakfast, but I don't have any more bread, and I can't go where I usually go to get some, because they don't like it when I take their stuff without cash, and I can't get cash because I cant get a job because I'm only eleven years old.
I guess it doesn't really matter if I don't have bread, as long as the water's running and I can still wash myself.
I made my way to the bright red curtain leading to the bathroom, pants already halfway down, my shirt already off, both tucked messily between my armpit for later.
I like quiet mornings, because it makes it easier to think when there's no noise.
A dead house, no one is here, only me.
*SwwwWWISH*
Vile, pungent odor immediately shot from the deafeningly loud pink room punching my lungs out of all of their air.
*EXHALE*
The once white tiles lining the pink walls were stained yellow. Dirt seeped into the cracks of the tiles and marked blackish lines around the inside of the tub.
*Drip, drop, drip*
Milky white water dropped and dripped from the shower head above.
The room is small, more like a closet or a bathroom-ette.
The sink, toilet, and bath squished together, taking up too much of the real estate of the tiny room, the only way to get through was a tight, two foot wide walkway.
The odor is seeped into the corners of the tight walkway, completely blocking my way to the shower on the other side.
"Who the heck are you…?"
"..."
On the toilet folded a grown up, his left cheek resting on his knee, his knees pushed against the wall, quietly staring at me.
His eyes looked glazed over with the color of milk or sticky mayonnaise, muddying his wide, black pupils.
"..." I echoed his response.
"Bluh," sounds like drowning, "Blurghe," deep red blood erupted from the mysterious man's mouth, and hung off of his nice black dress pants.
*drrrrip* *drrrrop*
Sticky red strings slowly guided the blood down the same lonely pathway, one slow drop at a time.
But my face feels all dirty, and my fingers are sticky, so all I wanna do right now is to take a shower.
He's dead, or, basically dead, I'm not stupid, I know that.
But all I wanna do right now is take a shower, cause my forehead is sticky, and I don't feel very good right now.
I should've bought some bread, bread's good for you I think.
I think I'm gonna go buy some bread I think.
Blood continuously drrripped from the dead man's mouth and puddled around his nice black business shoes. He slowly inched towards me, his bloody hands reaching for my dad's size fourteen Birkenstocks.
Then I'll go feed mom, and then I'll tell her I love her this time if she tells me she loves me this time.
Thick red liquid metal forged itself around my shoes. I'm trapped, my heavy stone body hanging in the cold, dead atmosphere like a single mote of dust, completely stiff and utterly alone.
Alone with a dead guy, who's on my toilet.
I slowly lifted my shoe, which stayed attached to the ground's sticky red hands, slowly, slowly...
*CRASH!*
Out of the muddy green door and pushed my tight white sneakers off of the ground behind me, over and over and over again down the silent street.
- I'll buy some bread and mayo, and maybe some milk, too.