Aftermath

Posted on 11/08/2011

5



“Harumpf.”

“There he goes again. He’ll wake the girls,” Camille muttered to herself. He hadn’t woken her of course. She hadn’t slept a full eight hours in weeks. Not since she had gone.

Bracing herself, Camille padded along the hall. Gingerly, she made her way downstairs, pausing to take in her reflection in the large antique mirror. Grey circles framed her eyes and her complexion looked as tired as she felt.

“Oh my…”

Lying face down on the floor was Gerald, her 36-year-old son. Drunk. Splayed out like an inebriated starfish.

Muriel had a lot to answer for.

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