I knock on the door to mom and dad's townhouse.
I stand there anxiously, feeling the paper crumpling in the fist I clenched it in.
"Come in!" comes a voice.
I open the front door and bang up the steps.
YOU ARE READING
clouded
Poetrycigarettes, to the broken soul, are what advil is to an aching head. an escape from all pain. -- best rank: #974 in short story
