Cogent

THREE

Two weeks later

It was early when he woke, still dark. So early that it was like yesterday had never ended. It was his stepfather's truck that had woken him before his alarm, letting him know that Derek was leaving. The semi-truck was loud enough to be mistaken for an alien invasion. Although there were days when it hadn't penetrated his unconscious state, those were few and far between.

In spite of the cold and his heavy eyes, Noah dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of damp jeans from yesterday and yanking his black sneakers onto his bare feet. His socks were somewhere in the piles of garbage and blankets. He didn't have the patience to look for them.

His room, sparsely furnished with a dresser and a mattress on the floor, was cluttered with crushed soda bottles and empty bags of chips. He ate like a five-hundred-pound couch potato, but remained thin as a rail. It was from all the walking and running around he had to do, though he'd been accused more than once of using drugs. He looked like a tweaker, with his swollen knucklebones and sunken cheeks. But the black and blue stains on his fingernails were paint, and the puncture marks on his arms weren't from needles.

Kicking aside the trash littering his path to the bathroom, Noah made his way to the sink and quickly brushed his teeth, adjusting his unruly mass of black hair while he scrubbed his tongue.

With a mouthful of toothpaste, he set his toothbrush aside and pulled at the skin under his eyes until they appeared to bulge. Dark circles contrasted against the pale skin, giving him a wane, tired appearance. He glared at his reflection, toothpaste foam dribbling down his chin. Feral. Rabid. Out of control.

He leaned over the sink to spit, then stood back up, one eyebrow raised in defiance. "You look like shit, Fulton." he breathed, wiping a hand over his mouth and pulling at his smooth, hairless jawline. His reflection stared back, voiceless.

Beside his mattress, the alarm clock buzzed loudly. Whirling around, Noah stumbled out the bathroom door and ran into his room across the hall, leaping onto the bed to grab the clock and slam the snooze button. With the alarm silenced, he hesitated to get up, listening for any sign of movement in the rest of the house. After several moments of prolonged quiet, Noah switched off the alarm, set the clock on the carpet and then heaved himself off the mattress.

Satisfied that the other occupant of the house was still asleep, he pulled on a slate colored hoodie over his black tank top and slipped on a dark brown leather jacket. It was cold and rainy outside, and he was guaranteed to get wet without the extra layers. Fingering his right earring, Noah grabbed his backpack and slung it over one shoulder.

Light from the living room windows seeped into the hallway, illuminating the specks of dust in the air. As Noah approached the room he caught sight of his mother lying face-down on the couch, tangled in blankets. Her black hair, the same color as his, was a greasy mess that spread out in stringy tentacles over the side of the sofa cushion and over her arm, which had contorted while she slept so that her elbow stuck out at an odd angle. She looked like a broken doll.

Scowling at the burnt out cigarette still stuck between her fingers, Noah turned away from her, moving in long strides toward the front door. He hated finding her like that; passed out, so unkempt. Before he left, his foot knocked into a half-empty bottle of amber colored liquid. He didn't bother reading the label, kicking it aside instead.

Without saying a word, Noah left the house, locking the door behind him. Crossing the dirt and gravel yard, he headed down the road. His neighborhood was heavily populated, trailers stationed so close together they were almost touching. Old rusted vehicles and tarp covered carports littered small driveways and tiny yards. Noah walked along the right side of the street, tapping the tops of mailboxes with the silver band on his middle finger as he passed.