Georgie’s socks are damp, pungent; his nose crinkles from the smell. His mother shuffles towards the kitchen, opens the refrigerator and begins cooking the leftovers.
He fallows puppy like, eyeing the food greedily as it rotates on the plate of the microwave.
“I hope you are not expecting to eat like that- go upstairs and clean upâ€? He looks over, opens his mouth and then decides to not respond. He ascends the stairs, the smell of the chicken tugging at him with every waft. Wrapping around his head like a leash, choking him with every step he takes forward.
He’s in the bathroom, grudgingly takes of his clothes and starts the water. Seeing his reflection jogs his memory, his hand travels to the right side of his torso. He steps into the water, small rivers tracing over the indentations and mounds of his flesh. His hand has moved, he looks down and winces at the gash, which has partially been clotted by dark mounds of platelets. The water runs over his wound, the puddle by his feet a pinkish hue.