《Twisted Crimson》 Chapter 1. The rain rushed down the rusty piping of the Robinsons¡¯ roof. Geoffrey was in a deep sleep, haphazardly, in his bed; his mother closing shut the worn-out picture book she had just finished reading to him. Leaving a kiss on his bruised forehead, she slowly left the boy¡¯s bedroom - letting a sliver of light enter through the partially closed door. ¡°Is he asleep?¡± asked Richard, Geoffrey¡¯s father. ¡°Yeah, just a moment ago.¡± ¡°Janice, we need to talk.¡± Richard had a sombre look on his face. A look that hasn¡¯t left since his wife caught him on top of his teaching assistant. ¡°Look, Richard, it¡¯s final¡­¡± ¡°Shut up!¡± ejected Richard, slamming his fists against the coffee table. The loud thunder overlapping with the sound of Richard¡¯s fists. ¡°You¡¯re gonna wake Geoffrey.¡± *** Geoffrey wearily stretched his arms, feeling adrift. His throat was burning; his temple throbbed. He rolled his tongue around, lubricating the scaly walls of his inner cheek. With no recollection of the previous night, he gently lifted himself off the torn leather sofa - only to find himself rolling off the edge. He dropped hard, his torso slightly missing the cheap bottle of supermarket whiskey that stood firmly below.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. It was morning, yet it almost didn¡¯t matter. Synthetic light seeped through the metal blinds. Sunlight was a luxury; accommodating those who inhabited society¡¯s polar demographics - poor enough to live further away or rich enough to live further above. What the fuck happened? Groaning, Geoffrey slowing regained his balance. He grasped at loose straws, trying to remember what got him into this state. ¡°I can¡¯t keep doing this,¡± he mumbled as he grabbed the small blade lying on the wooden crate next to him. Solidified blood caked its dull edges. He brought the nine-inch dagger to the sink, a sanctuary to all his unwashed dinnerware. Geoffrey slowly turned the faucet knob. A slurry of rust, grime and sediment waded through the tap; it took a few second for the maroon to fade. The now-wet blood rubbed off the remains of an old plaid shirt. The blade, resembling nothing sharp, had seen better days. Fuck. A sharp pang shot up his leg. Geoffrey looked down his jeans, exploring a deep gash that painted his right calf red. Perhaps this was where his steel friend went last night. He looked closer, lifting his thighs up to see where the damage exactly was. Pus formed along the crevices. Squeezing the wound shut with his trembling fingers, he set his foot back down. He wobbled towards the medical cabinet, hoping to find more oxycodone - candy to the child. Unable to locate his painkillers, Geoffrey was finding it terribly hard to stand. He had no choice but to face the pain. Raw and weeping flesh in various shades of pink and red, the gash was just one of many ailments Geoffrey felt that morning. He staggered back to the sofa, the whiskey bottle was his bittersweet remedy. The golden-brown liquor hit Geoffrey¡¯s leg; a paroxysm of agony triggered a guttural cry. ¡°Arrggh! Shit! Shit!¡± Envelopes of air escaped his mouth as he panted and trembled with discomfort. It had a raw quality, the realness of a person consumed by a pain that knew no end or limit. Entranced, Geoffrey slipped back into unconsciousness. Chapter 2. ¡°You¡¯re up?¡± Geoffrey didn¡¯t have the strength to lift his eyelids. After almost half a day on the cold concrete floor, he felt even closer to death. ¡°I can see your eyes moving. Good evening, Geoffrey.¡± Hani. ¡°I made SpaghettiOs. Get off your ass and fill up. We have shit to do.¡± The smell of processed tomato sauce suddenly entered Geoffrey¡¯s nostrils. He couldn¡¯t bear to inhale more than he needed; it wasn¡¯t stuffing his mouth he was worried about, it was the opposite. ¡°Get me a bucket...quick,¡± Geoffrey muttered, his eyes now wide open. ¡°Fuck, hold on¡­¡± Hani exclaimed as she was interrupted by the pale watery bile that exited Geoffrey¡¯s mouth. Contracting violently, forcing everything up and out, his face was now white with sweat beading down his forehead. Geoffrey lurched sideways, retching, balling up into a fetal position. Vomit continued spewing out of his mouth. The pungent stench filled the room as he heaved even though there was nothing left to go. ¡°Dude, you¡¯re cleaning that fucking mess up,¡± said Hani in a nasal voice, two fingers clamping her nose shut. ¡°You better get that cut checked out,¡± she continued as she left the common area to wash her hands, ¡°it looks pretty bad.¡± This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Geoffrey looked down. His wound was firmly wrapped in bandages, orangish iodine seeping through the gauze. Hani must¡¯ve done this. ¡°Thanks,¡± Geoffrey replied to Hani¡¯s request, ¡°I¡¯ll see Quincy later.¡± ¡°How¡¯d it go last night?¡± she mumbled, with a mouthful of the tomato mush. Hani now sat across Geoffrey, trying to not to let the puddle of puke ruin her meal. ¡°Dunno.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± she replied, a puzzled frown hung on her face. ¡°I don¡¯t remember. I woke with this bitch of a headache, and the last thing I know¡­ I think I stuck a knife in my leg.¡± ¡°That¡¯s where you got that from? So much for battle scars, honey.¡± Geoffrey shot an irritated look at Hani, ¡°Shut up and help me up, would you?¡± Ignored, Geoffrey wiped at his mouth, an acidic aftertaste lingering under his tongue. He grabbed ahold of the crate, trying to balance himself off the ground. He finally got up, retreated wearily along to the bathroom. He unbuttoned his shirt. Hawaiian, Geoffrey was a man of peculiar and questionable tastes. His jeans were sitting in the sink, thanks to Hani¡¯s treatment. He slid his boxer briefs down to his ankles, his back aching as he bent over and crackling as he straightened up. Naked, he stared into a murky mirror, yellowing from grime and decades of neglect; a man stared back at him. Bloodshot eyes on a pale face. His cheekbones gave him an almost skeletal look. A scraggy beard clung to his face in clumps like moss on a dry rock. His lips were chapped, his nose arched slightly and his forehead wrinkled as he stared precariously at himself. Sick of himself, he climbed into the shower. Hani stomped her way to the bathroom entrance, annoyed, ¡°Close the damn door, prick.¡± Grabbing mop and a bucket, she whammed the door shut. Water ran down his back, his shoulder blades protruded, and his chest sunken. Geoffrey had never kept in shape. To him, appearances didn¡¯t matter. It was all a farce and trying to look good was a waste of time. Why look good when there¡¯s nothing to look good for? It was a very cynical way of living but it was effective. Effective for what he did for a living.