By Connor Greenaway

He trotted down the stairs, heavy footsteps on dirty steps. He glanced around at the filthy surroundings. The place was a mess, and truthfully, so was he. He shuffled through the litter-strewn hallway, sat at the kitchen table, and lit a cigarette. He sneered at the half-ravaged birthday cake: A sickly reminder of his own age. His cigarette had gone out, he started on a whiskey breakfast and lit another.


3 thoughts on “Cake

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