Transgression (Prequel #1)

11 - Family

The whiny creak of rusted hinges ripped through the shadows of his vacant apartment. Soft whirring from the central heating and a jingle from his keys, as they dislodged from the handle, cemented an end of the day.

Repetition. A comfort and a tragedy to such a lonely man. On one hand, he knew what to expect as soon as he stepped through the threshold; on the other, this path had little deviation. What lay beyond this frame were idle hands and the buzz of a stoic atmosphere. A domain riddled with contempt and stilted time, welcoming a familiar soul.

Apathetically, Alex set foot into his home and switched on the light with a lax finger. His lower back pinched from the long drive as he kicked off his boots and debated on what he should have for dinner. Though he was conflicted with if he should even be home right now or out running errands; hell, even working on his car. Then again, it was almost five; and the burden of heavy rain was reminded as he rustled the droplets from his bristle hair. Resigning himself to the apartment would be the sensible thing to do. Besides, he had the whole weekend to be productive.

At first oblivious, he began to walk away from the boots he left haphazardly on the floor; then paused. When turning his attention to them, he bent down to stand them upright when he was met by the sight of a large dent in the plaster wall. He scoffed and set that aside for another day.

Continuing on to the kitchen, he let the near silence play a melody in his ears. The little noises that kept his sanity from slipping away were less prominent so far; but existed, nonetheless. The rain slapping the window along with the cozy whir of the fridge gave him serenity in a time where he may otherwise be stressed. Right now, the feeling was mellow; almost considered good by his standards.

In the kitchen, he rifled through the fridge for anything to eat. His memory of the morning didn't serve him well, but he did happen upon a jar of unopened pickles that spiked his appetite. While reaching for the jar with one hand, his other instinctively grasped a bottle of beer and he kicked the door closed with his toe. While he made his way to the couch, he let a song he had heard while working play on a loop. Truly awful, to have a genre of music so despised locked in your brain. There was, however, one remedy for that. Television.

First, he set the items on the coffee table and reclused to his room momentarily to change. The apartment was chilly, but just warm enough to be comfortable in a tank top and sweatpants. Content with his plan to rest and lament the day away with some flashing banter on the screen; he plopped himself down with a heavy sigh and opened the jar. Kicking his feet up onto the table, one toe poking out of the hole in his sock, he flipped through many channels before settling on Little House on the Prairie.

As a kid, this show got on his nerves like a too-short fingernail. Every other day at suppertime, his mother would get TV privileges and this was the only show she allowed all throughout the meal. Now, like washing a wound, it was a necessary burn. As a whole, the show was a drag. However, the deeper connection he had forcibly established unraveled the bandages that formed a noose around his past. In the reflection of the rounded glass, he could see her smile beside him, and he felt warm.

Unknowingly, as time went on, he had gone through nearly half the jar of pickles and forgot about his beer. Cracking the lid, he turned the bottle on its head and washed down the potent vinegar as condensation dripped onto his neck. With the bottle half drunk, he stood himself with an audible grunt with the pickles in hand and returned it to the fridge.

On his way back, he noticed an hour had gone by upon glancing at the clock. With that knowledge, he dragged his feet over to the window past the coffee table and overlooked the parking lot.

Many puddles glistened under the buzzing lights but the rain itself had lifted considerably. A haunting mist sprinkled the few parked cars and from the heat inside formed a white haze on the glass. Without provocation, an idea struck him.