Brothers
The walk back to your apartment is a long one. Each step takes you closer to facing what has just happened back there. It gets harder to continue on as you get closer but you force yourself to keep moving and eventually you find yourself standing outside of your apartment.
You walk in through the door and up the stairs, apprehension climbing up your throat the closer you get to your door. Eventually, you reach it.
Several minutes pass as you stand in front of your door. Sweat dots your brow and you find yourself breathing hard. You can't quite bring yourself to reach for the knob. You suppress the urge to sob like a child as turn the knob and push the door open.
The place is beat up and barren, save for the ghastly and now bloodstained fold-out couch. Most of your possessions are gone, a few loose papers and magazines litter the ground. You still have your table and bed, but the box of money you keep under there is gone.
You sit on the couch in a guilty shock for several hours before you call the police. The police arrive and look around, they ask you some questions, but you don't mention Vicky. There's no need to make them hate you the way you hate yourself. They don't seem optimistic that the criminals will be found.
You don't go to work for a few days. Finally, you return. Fearful of seeing Vicky, you keep your head low and do your work. You don't see her all day. You don't see her at all that week. She is terminated for not showing for work and you find a guilty relief in knowing that you will not have to face her with your shame.
You go about doing your work, trying to move on with your life. There are no real friends in your life anymore, you tend to keep to yourself. When the phone rings, the machine picks up. When there is a knock at the door you pretend not to be home. You sleep and work, nothing more.
One night the phone rings, and as usual you let the machine take a message. You hear your father over the machine, his tone very serious despite the obvious drunken slur. "Paul... Paul... Your mother is dead. Please come home." The message ends.
You tell your employers that you will be off for a week due a death in the family.
You walk in through the door and up the stairs, apprehension climbing up your throat the closer you get to your door. Eventually, you reach it.
Several minutes pass as you stand in front of your door. Sweat dots your brow and you find yourself breathing hard. You can't quite bring yourself to reach for the knob. You suppress the urge to sob like a child as turn the knob and push the door open.
The place is beat up and barren, save for the ghastly and now bloodstained fold-out couch. Most of your possessions are gone, a few loose papers and magazines litter the ground. You still have your table and bed, but the box of money you keep under there is gone.
You sit on the couch in a guilty shock for several hours before you call the police. The police arrive and look around, they ask you some questions, but you don't mention Vicky. There's no need to make them hate you the way you hate yourself. They don't seem optimistic that the criminals will be found.
You don't go to work for a few days. Finally, you return. Fearful of seeing Vicky, you keep your head low and do your work. You don't see her all day. You don't see her at all that week. She is terminated for not showing for work and you find a guilty relief in knowing that you will not have to face her with your shame.
You go about doing your work, trying to move on with your life. There are no real friends in your life anymore, you tend to keep to yourself. When the phone rings, the machine picks up. When there is a knock at the door you pretend not to be home. You sleep and work, nothing more.
One night the phone rings, and as usual you let the machine take a message. You hear your father over the machine, his tone very serious despite the obvious drunken slur. "Paul... Paul... Your mother is dead. Please come home." The message ends.
You tell your employers that you will be off for a week due a death in the family.