Mark entered the modest house.
It was hard to look around as the room was shrouded in darkness. He could have turned on the light but instead groped without sight. Before him was a living room with a couch and a coffee table. There was little need to watch his steps for the wooden floor was cleaned to perfection.
He treaded lightly across the room, like a rabbit in a lion's den, his presence suppressed as he neared the stairs. On the sofa lay a figure around his size, covered by a sheet. If one looked closely at the table, outlines of bottles were to be seen.
The air was suffocating, both unwelcoming and oppressing. Though it was where he lived, he felt no familiarity with the desolate building. He was no more than a stranger.
After reaching the stairs, he quietly treaded to the second floor, each step producing a feeble squeak. Atop the flight was a hallway with three doors. One led to the washroom, the other to his chamber.
The last door is no more than a seal- everything behind it forsaken, undiscussed.
Mark entered his room. There still wasn't any light, but everything was ordered and undisturbed, giving peace of mind to the young man.
A desk, a shelf, a bed, and a window. There was also another door leading to the closet. Though nearly empty, everything needed was present.
The bed was properly made- a habit he picked up in his late teens.
Countless books were lined on the shelf, mostly relating to psychology, some on sociology, the remaining few being varied on topics such as advanced communication skills, drink mixes, and poetry.
On the desk, papers- mostly bills- were neatly sorted and stacked. A ballpoint pen lay on the side.
In the corner, there lay a stand-up case with a photo inside. Cracks sprawled across the glace surface. One could barely depict three people smiling: a man, a woman, and a child. It reminded Mark of brightness and warmth, luxuries lost to the past, long buried, dead.
He once tried to hide his grievances along with the picture, turning it down onto the table with too much force. Yet the act of denial amounted to nothing, so eventually, he brought the case back up.
Only through acceptance was he able to amend his resentments.
While approaching the bed Mark glanced outside the window. He witnessed the unbrilliant show of the city lights turning off. A curfew law was recently set in place to preserve the amount of electricity being used.
After the brilliance from the city was extinguished, a vast expanse of emptiness was to be beheld. There were no stars and the moon was obscured by the deep smog in the sky, not a single ray of light penetrating the cloudy barrier. All that remained was darkness.
Time blurred before he closed his eyes, seconds blending into minutes, to hours. And then he awakened, greeted by the morning sun peaking over the distant mountains.
The young man rose and stretched, a yawn escaped his mouth. He remade the bed and patted its creases. After changing his clothes he deftly left the room.
'I wonder if I'll get lucky today.'
He peered to the side as he slowly descended the stairway. The figure under to covers was still on the couch, undisturbed.
Near the stairway and behind the couch was the kitchen. A counter separated it from the living space. The well-maintained cooking area was rather small, with but a coffee maker on the pristine surface, a jar of grounded coffee to its side.
It was a shame to see that the fridge was devoid of food, same for the cabinets.
Sighing, Mark made some coffee. There was nothing to compliment the steaming, bitter black drink. But it helped him get through the day, and that was the only thing he needed.
While sipping from the mug, his attention was brought to the couch as the covers on it began to stir, his eyes shone with a peculiar glint as he saw his mother rise.
Her short, unkept hair was beginning to whiten, her black eyes looked around in confusion before she clutched her head and groaned.
'A hangover...'
Mark frowned, a dreadful epiphany settling upon him.
He reached out with his mind and tried to placate her, raising a sense of ease amidst the pain she felt. Alas, her hands fell from her face, and she opened her eyes once more.
She looked at Mark.
"You... Fucking idiot! Why is there no goddamn food in the fridge!? Are you trying to starve me!? Are you trying to kill me!?"
In her rant she grabbed one of the glass bottles beside her and viciously chucked it at Mark. He ducked as the bottle shattered on the counter, sending shards flying throughout the kitchen.
Mark felt something scratch his face. He reached with his fingers, feeling a warm sensation just a centimeter below his eyes; blood dripped from it.
Realizing that there were more bottles to be thrown, he rushed to finish his coffee, downing it in one gulp. The bitterness was drowned out by the searing heat of the drink, which scalded his lips, mouth, and throat as the black liquid coursed through his body.
He rushed past his raging mother in a mad dash to the door, opening it while simultaneously grabbing his shoes.
"And stay the fuck out of my house!"
Mark slammed the door, he felt the impact of a bottle crashing into it, shattering glass filled his ears once more.
Blood trailed down his face, he wiped it before it could spill onto his clothes.
'Gotta get that fixed'
Mark hastily pulled on his shoes and tied them. The tense feeling that came from nearly losing his eye started to fade as he began to walk on the street. His pace became steadier with each step he took.
He began to whistle while appreciating the resplendent sunrise, thankful for the warmth and light it brought to his life.
The most he could do was accept the things he lost, and be considerate of the things he still possessed.
There were no more tears left to be shed.
Everything he felt for his family is dead.