LEILA
.
.
The person who always kept it so meticulously nice and clean despite her own failing health was currently confined to her bed, or maybe just maybe she wasn’t even here anymore.
I walked faster towards the front door, not even waiting for anyone to open it.
No need to knock, the door was always unlocked, a pathetic testament to my father’s apathy and the general lawlessness that seemed to permeate the place.
Just as I thought, it creaked open easily, I moved further inside, revealing the familiar, yet somehow more depressing, living room.
An ashtray on the coffee table overflowed with extinguished cigarette butts, some only half-smoked, and no one.
Empty bottles, mostly cheap whisky, lay scattered on the worn carpet, a familiar sight that always made my stomach clench.
