John finds himself on the floor in the dark.
He struggles to sit up, gingerly touched his face. The right side is sore like he had been punched.
holding his head and wondering, how did I miss it?. He pushes the door back into the
corner, over the furnace. He listens.
There is no noise from his mother's bedroom, so he crawls into the bathroom,
closes the door, turns on the light and stands up.
In the mirror, he can see no blood though a bruise is darkening by his right eye. "Boy, I
got tagged," he thinks. It is easier to walk
towards the light seeping though the curtains of the darkened living room and he experiences no
further mishaps on his journey to the kitchen.
His hunger is coming back now the
throbbing in his head is going away. John is really baked. He decides on something easy to fix, on
corn flakes and milk. Earlier in the week John had noticed that his mother had left a half gallon
of milk on the counter by the sink. It stayed there for three days; evolving from milk to something really
nasty. Unbeknownst to John, she saw the carton sitting on the counter and didn’t throw it out. Instead,
she put it back into the refrigerator.
.
John reachs the kitchen, opens the refrigerator
door, pulls out that carton. In the darkness he
collects corn flakes, bowl and spoon. He gets some corn flakes
into the bowl and can't see the stuff that comes out of the milk carton,
it doesn't pour - it chunks.
John is really baked with munchies like you can't believe. He is anticipating the corn flakes pigout.
He hunkers
down over the bowl. Mouth watering, he plunges the spoon into the vile mixture, stuffs it into his face.
His taste
buds send information to his brain regarding the recent sensory input and its exquisite foulness.
