Streetlight [Light TomTord]

A Streetlamp for Company

Tord kicked a stone across the way. He sighed to himself once again, and a gust of wind blew through. He held his arms, knees to his chest, as the air passed through his rusty ginger hair. He shivered, eyes shut tight. Despite him shriveling in the icy air, he refused to go inside.

Fall hadn't been pleasant so far. It'd come with a rush, and the cold weather refused to leave, as usual. The ground was already frosting over, and Tord bet the streetlight was gonna have it's faded panels frosted over before he went in.

All of the sudden, noises were heard in the backyard. Tord turned his head to the sound of something falling to the ground, and leaves beginning to crunch. He stood, and started slowly walking toward the back of the house.

"Hello..?" He nervously, yet quietly called into the dark. "Who's there? I'm armed." Silence. The leaves stopped making noise after he spoke the first time. He heard heavy and shivering breaths from behind the house. Tord wasn't taking any chances; he stuck his right hand into his hoodie pocket and flicked the safety off his pistol. A flashlight flicked on from where the being was standing, and Tord took it as a cue. He walked over to where he could see the rest of the backyard, and the being raised the flashlight right in his eyes. Tord groaned from the flashy light, and he aimed his gun right at the person.

It was quiet again, until the person holding the light hiccuped. Tord lowered his gun. "Who are you, I can't see past your light," Tord says, slightly covering his eyes with his unarmed hand.

"Who are," another hiccup, "you?" The flashlight, coming from the person's phone, was tapped off. It was dark again, and the streetlight was only just shining on Tord. Even though he couldn't see the one in front of him, he recognized his slurred voice.

"Where in the hell have you been, Tom?" Tord asked, putting his pistol away and re-securing the safety. "Were you out drinking?"

"That's none of your business, Matt," Tom sneered. His words were slightly tied together; some slurred together, and others with seconds of delay.

Tord crossed his arms, disapproving of him. He stepped closer to Tom, and dragged him out from behind the house by his wrist. He tripped forward, and Tord was in slight shock by Tom's appearance.

Tom had his hoodie around his waist, with two bottles of alcohol sport-taped to his hands. They were almost empty. Tom's "ASDF" tee was bloodstained around the collar, and his pants had some tears and huge rips. With further inspection, there were cuts and scars on his legs. Tord's face clearly displays his disbelief.

Bloodstained collar... Ripped pants... Alcohol bottles? And he's out freezing his ass off? I understand being drunk, but this is insane. How can he manage to swipe up on his iPhone, but not manage to slip his hoodie on? He's crazy.. Tord was unamused then. He shook his head and dragged Tom to the front door. He didn't even care where Tom was, he's just disappointed.

Tord moved his hand to the door handle, but was unable turn it. He tried some more, but it was stuck. His heart sank, and his face filled with dismay. He fiddled with the handle some more, but it refused to budge.

"Great." Tord sat down on the steps. "Now we're stuck in the freezing cold." Tom hiccuped again. Tord rolled his eyes. "Correction: I'm stuck in the freezing cold with a drunken idiot."

Tom banged on the door with the back of his hands. Tord looked up at him.

"What are you doing?"

"T-Trying to get in the h-house," Tom stuttered. Tord eyed Tom. He was shaking; the breaths coming out of his mouth were short, but turned to carbon smoke in the cold air. Tord knew he wouldn't last the night. Of course, he didn't really care.

Why the hell should I care? It was his choice to go out and waste himself away, and now he's in this mess.  Yet, Tord nonetheless got up and started banging on the door. "EDD! MATT! VÅKN OPP! FÅ TOSK INNE!" He shouted.

Tom banged with him, but seemed too shivery to shout. After a half minute more of banging, they stopped. Tom stepped back, and Tord angrily rested a fist on the door.

"Jeg skal bryte denne jævla døren ned..." He muttered to himself. He took out his gun, and flicked the safety off again. He was about to shoot the door when he heard liquid sifting around behind him. Tord turned around. Tom had lifted the bottle taped to his left hand to his mouth.

Tom landed on the sidewalk, his cheek redder that before. Tord rubbed his knuckles; they'd just collided with Tom's face. "If you think we're gonna last all night, you better cork those damn bottles," Tord demanded, strict toned. Tom got up off the ground, slowly but surely. He brushed himself off as much as he could with alcohol taped to him. He limped forward a bit, stumbling. Then, without holding back, he ran forward and shoulder-checked Tord into the front door.

Tord fell down. He'd tripped up the steps when Tom shoved him from that point, and he'd taken quite a hit against the door. Tom walked up to him, and lifted him off the ground by his hoodie collar. Tord was surprised that he had enough strength to do so, but that scared him at the same time.

Tom raised his arm, and he looked like he was going to punch Tord. But, instead, Tom brought his arm down as fast as he could, and slammed the glass bottle taped to his hand right into Tord's shoulder. It shattered into pieces, and Tom flexed his hand around. He dropped Tord, and let him sit there for a moment.

Tord was the one shaking now. He rubbed his shoulder; it was really starting to hurt. He was a bundle of bruises, but Tom wasn't going to stop there. He picked him back up with his right hand, his free hand.

"Just b-because, I am drunk," Tom started, shivering. "D-Doesn't mean, you, and your filthy ass, g-get, to push me, around." He raised his opposite hand just like before, and got ready to swing. "Sleep t-tight, commie," he stuttered before slamming Tord in the head with his bottle.