Raw Deal

S. K. Nicholas


Turning my head to the left, I see steam slipping through the cracks of the bathroom door. The sound of her singing and the dog’s muffled barks are a constant, yet they’ve become background noise. Rising my right leg off the floor, another gust of foul-smelling gas creeps from my arse. The stink is horrific. Imagine a bowl containing rotten eggs and chocolate, mixed together with a generous helping of gone-off milk. Sniffing such a whiff is a horrible, perverse indulgence. If it smells like this once she’s back in the room, she’ll be angry for sure. Picturing her angry face, I can’t help but giggle. Then I picture her while she sleeps, and smile to myself at the thought of being in her arms. Her arms are short yet comforting. They keep me warm. They keep the wolf from the door. She doesn’t talk much about her father. Other…

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