He wasn’t quite sure what to do next. His little sister was crying, his mother was lying on the floor with her eyes rolling in and out of her sockets. And there was a man at the door yelling,
“Open up you dirty bimbo,” the voice said.
Timmy didn’t know what a bimbo was but he knew if he opened the door the man would come in and try to shake his mother. It was not possible to shake her out, but he would yell and shake and it would make his little sister cry. The haze of whatever she syringed herself with usually lasted several hours. You had to catch her in between the end of one haze and the start of the next one if you wanted to talk to her.
He had determined in his 11 years of life that during the first week of a new month the minutes between the end of one haze and the start of the next haze were limited to just a few. The end parts of the month were different. During those days his mom would sometimes get up at the end of a haze and buy food, maybe even make dinner, maybe even talk about things. The end parts of the month were Timmy’s favorite.
But if you tried to bother her in the haze she would throw things and the man would definitely be angry if she threw things. Timmy placed the glass of water he had been holding down on the ground and picked his frame up off the floor. He felt his knee crack a little he must have been huddling over his mom a long time. He slowly walked over to the front door.
“Open the door you little shit.”
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There is no black and white and there is no pure evil or good, this is the story of Timmy and his grey. The story about a little boy and the math that added up to the after man sitting in the aftermath of a chair.
Thank you and take care,