Of June

12- Down Your Dark Basement Stairs

"Jesus Christ", are Mrs. Young's first words when she pulls open the door and her gaze lands upon Adam, just after he's hoisted himself up from the position that was a result of his recent 'punishment'. "Tell me that those marks and bruises aren't real. . ."

"They aren't, it's just make-up." He deadpans, slowly limping past her. Proceeding inside the house he removes his shoes one by one, balancing himself on the other leg each time.

Joan shares a look with me, curiousity swimming in her eyes before she glances back at her son who has now reached near the stairs. "Stop right there Adam." She commands, her now bold features brimming with concern. "Will anyone of you explain to me what in the world happened? Adam, how did you get-"

Her words are cut short because when Adam spins around, his foot slips on the first step and he topples over the stairs, colliding with the floor on his butt. As for exactly how many more times the said accident is going to occur today, I'm not too sure.

Joan and I rush over to him to aid him get up on his feet. She shakes her head, exhaling out deeply. "Let's get you to your room first."

-

"It hurts!!" Adam wails like a goat in his bed, squeezing his eyes shut the moment Joan applies cream over the dry incisions on his cheek.

I'm standing in his bedroom, just beside the small and messy bed located near the window, the curtains of which are hanging at the sides in a translucent shade of light yellow. Scanning around, it's hard to believe that it's even possible for a room to be cosy and catastrophically untidy at the same time.

A fraction of the walls are hidden under band posters of sorts, Blink 182 and Green Day, I think, are the specific ones that catch my eye. A bean bag chair is placed in front of the bed. A study table resides towards the opposite side of the room with an old computer set in one corner and sheets of unassembled papers, pens and books occupying the rest of the furniture. An empty wrapper of potato chips sways like a leaf around a small dustbin, along with other crumpled up pieces of papers. A basketball net hangs just near the study table.

Joan then takes the ice pack and deposits it over his forehead, covering the bruise that has now become as maroon as meat. He grimaces again due to the stinging ice while I stand there, at times wincing myself whenever he would let out an ear piercing shriek. For a second it almost makes me regret my act a few minutes ago.

"Calm down, okay. This was the last one." She assures, a mountain of worry lacing across her face. "Seriously, Adam, how many times do I have to tell you to take care of yourself? And I'm asking this once again, to both of you", she reverses glances between us, "How did all this happen? Madison? You were there, right?"

I become alert at the mention of my name. "Yeah, actually, Mrs. Young. . ."

"I- I was chased by a dog." Adam interrupts, looking at me wide-eyed as his head vibrates sideways in an act of disapproval. Then, he turns back to his mother. "I bumped into a pole trying to run away", he points at his bruise, gulping, "And these scratches are because of the dog. . .Madison later helped me get back home."

Joan suspiciously eyes her son's sweaty face, then my astonished and confused one, then back at his. "Are you sure it was a dog? Go on, try to recall again."

Adam laughs nervously, firmly grabbing the blanket spread over his lap. "What do you mean mom. . .it was definitely a dog. My brain is alright so I remember it clearly."

A couple of dubious glances later, Joan finally unfolds the arms over her chest. "Fine, then. I'm going to prepare dinner, and don't dare leaving this bed before I tell you so. You need obvious rest, so it's all you'll get besides food, of course. Don't touch your computer–"