A Face as Long as the Years

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The yellow light broke down through the dust-sheeted blinds in streams that crashed upon the cluttered floor of empty Heineken bottles and broke off of the glass in an ironic prism upon the dark grey walls. Gravity tugged at the cheese and all of its contents as half of the pizza slept halfway off of the glass coffee table which was invisible under empty and wreaking containers of rocky road ice cream, pizza boxes, cups of noodle, and take-out from the local Chinese restaurant at the bottom of the apartment building. The train tracks roared their turbulence through the floor of hardwood oak and were absorbed by the countless items of clothing which each lingered with their own particular odor of week-old guilt. The TV flickered its colored lights into the dull atmosphere painted by the mixing tastes of molding scraps from the plethora of microwave dinners that left themselves open to the sunlight by the counter.

His socks each had three holes which indirectly served as a mechanism to the scent of rubbish that one would assume had come from the trash in the alley, but instead came from his feet. His sweatpants, like his socks, had a collection of stains ranging from mustard to tomato sauce. He shifted his body underneath the layer of empty bags of microwave popcorn and animal crackers, flinching as his eyes first caught a glimpse of the sun’s crystal rays bursting past the dust in the air and onto his face. As his body slowly rose, the small dog at his feet, whose eyes were as droopy as his ears and with a face as long as the years, hopped off the couch with a quickness that the room had not seen for weeks.

His feet slid into the faded red slippers below the couch and shuffled across the hardwood floor and over the yellowish-greenish tiles of the cold bathroom floor. He fell to his knees and knocked away empty and mostly-empty bottles of local brew, wrapped his arms around the white bowl, and sat. The mirror above his head remained freshly cracked and painted in red. The faucet dripped with a distinct pattern of disconsolate rust as it hit the slowly overflowing tea cup beneath it, catching the rainy days. As his stomach released the sorrow that he had inadvertently suppressed, he maintained his daily trend of yelling “HANNAH!” toward the slowly decaying ceiling and echoing through the lonesome halls that he calls home.





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