(no subject)
His back was slightly bent from where he always stayed over the table, leaning, examing. It could have been from the fumes, but those didn't always linger. He kept his viles on the back corner, stacked above the burner and caffeine pills. He liked things to be perfect when he wasn't cooking. His ocd had kicked ina few years before... it started when his arms began to blister, oozing pus along the tiny hairs on his arm. Fortunately, unlike his protege's he'd managed to get by with just one lost tooth, and fortunately it was on the bottom corner of his mouth. That's why he'd grown out his wiry auburn mustache, to distract wandering glances from his mouth. It's not that he was ashamed for what he did, he just knew he wasn't symmetrical anymore.
All around the room behind him lay glass cases of model trains. When he wasn't working, it was how he kept his sanity, hunched over his desk, meticulously painting each tiny aluminum hull to exact scale. Or from what he managed to remember. The main importance of the tiny models is what they held, the tiny white rocks packed tightly inside the little rectangular sliding doors.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and locked the lawnmower back into the shed. His wife smiled at him through the window, and sipped her glass of tea while walking around on the phone. The backyard was bordered by large oak trees, but otherwise left completely open. Besides the shed the only real tangible things in the backyard were his 7 year old son's swingset and treehouse. They were built not really as a father-son team but more a distraction to keep the lanky kid's distraction. He'd wandered into the room before, tried to play with the pricelss model trains and science kit that shared the space. That was a grown-ups room full of toys, not for him.
He could hear the cartoons blaring from the upstairs television as soon as he walked in. He knew it was probably so the conversation couldn't be heard by curious ears upstairs. What it was about... it didn't really matter. they had complete trust in one another. afterall, she had stayed out of the business affairs through the entire marriage and never once became unattracted to him from his physical state. it was pure love. The only one in the house she really loved more than her faithful, aging husband was her son. the two adults knew the house wouldn't have a father figure too much longer, that they were almost to their last hand.
The sound increased slightly as he crept up the stairs, trudging to the television. he muted it, his son wasn't playing there anymore anyway. the bedroom door was shut. he opened it, but no one was inside. he turned around to look in the work room, and saw a small white sneaker next to the desk leg.
the sight of the tipped model train on the table with open doors was the first clue. it lay there, with chipped paint, halfway full of the small white pills that called the boxcar home. He walked closer to the desk. the boy was lying on his back, open lips covered in foam. nose bleeding. his hands and cheeks were covered in white powder and his bright blue eyes stared empty at the door.
The man made no sign of emotion as he reached towards the train and emptied the other half of its contents into his cupped hand. He threw back his head and dropped them in. out the door {carefully closing it behind him}. down the stairs {quietly; his wife was in the living room}. he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the freezer and put the cool glass neck to his mouth.
All around the room behind him lay glass cases of model trains. When he wasn't working, it was how he kept his sanity, hunched over his desk, meticulously painting each tiny aluminum hull to exact scale. Or from what he managed to remember. The main importance of the tiny models is what they held, the tiny white rocks packed tightly inside the little rectangular sliding doors.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and locked the lawnmower back into the shed. His wife smiled at him through the window, and sipped her glass of tea while walking around on the phone. The backyard was bordered by large oak trees, but otherwise left completely open. Besides the shed the only real tangible things in the backyard were his 7 year old son's swingset and treehouse. They were built not really as a father-son team but more a distraction to keep the lanky kid's distraction. He'd wandered into the room before, tried to play with the pricelss model trains and science kit that shared the space. That was a grown-ups room full of toys, not for him.
He could hear the cartoons blaring from the upstairs television as soon as he walked in. He knew it was probably so the conversation couldn't be heard by curious ears upstairs. What it was about... it didn't really matter. they had complete trust in one another. afterall, she had stayed out of the business affairs through the entire marriage and never once became unattracted to him from his physical state. it was pure love. The only one in the house she really loved more than her faithful, aging husband was her son. the two adults knew the house wouldn't have a father figure too much longer, that they were almost to their last hand.
The sound increased slightly as he crept up the stairs, trudging to the television. he muted it, his son wasn't playing there anymore anyway. the bedroom door was shut. he opened it, but no one was inside. he turned around to look in the work room, and saw a small white sneaker next to the desk leg.
the sight of the tipped model train on the table with open doors was the first clue. it lay there, with chipped paint, halfway full of the small white pills that called the boxcar home. He walked closer to the desk. the boy was lying on his back, open lips covered in foam. nose bleeding. his hands and cheeks were covered in white powder and his bright blue eyes stared empty at the door.
The man made no sign of emotion as he reached towards the train and emptied the other half of its contents into his cupped hand. He threw back his head and dropped them in. out the door {carefully closing it behind him}. down the stairs {quietly; his wife was in the living room}. he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the freezer and put the cool glass neck to his mouth.