Marble Floors (short story)

He rubbed his fingertips across the cold marble on the ground in his new kitchen. The floor was so shiny, if there was better lighting in the room the boy was almost sure he would be able to see his reflection. The marble floor was the most shiny thing in his new house. Everything else was old and needed replacement. Outside of the kitchen, the floorboards creaked. The sofa in the living room leaned to one side, as though a large man had made that specific spot his area of rest for years, too tired and lazy to make it to the bedrooms which were up the unstable, narrow staircase. His parents had naught but a mattress on the floor in their small excuse of a room. The large dresser was filled to capacity with fancy dresses, suits and ties. The boys bedroom was across the hall. It too was small. He had a twin size bed with a single teddy bear. He did not like being upstairs. Many nights the boy would try to sleep on the couch. He did not like sleeping too close to his parents room. But his mother would always move him in his sleep to his bed upstairs. But now that he was alone, the boy sat in the kitchen. Bored, he found a dark blue crayon and searched around the kitchen for paper. He did not find any. He looked at the marble floor and looked around the empty house. He sat back down on the ground and began to draw. He stayed within the lines of each slate of marble. The moon shone through the small window above the sink, giving him light to see. He was not creating anything specific, he was just letting his hand glide across the floor. The door opened and he dropped the crayon. The echoe of heels clicking against the termite infested wood floor rang in his eardrums as he quickly tried to rub the crayon off the floor. The heavier sound of boots stomping on the floor followed, accompanied by a low bellowing voice, hollering words that the boy did not fully understand. The sounds carried up the staircase and the boy stopped what he was doing, curiously trying to listen. They became louder; he began to scribble on the ground again in an attempt to distract himself. Yet still, louder the sound of his fathers bellowing voice became and the heavier his footsteps. The ceiling above him, the ground under which his parents stood, arguing, shook causing paint particles and dust to fall on the ground. Something above him hit the floor with a thud and he scurried to a corner hugging his knees close. He pressed one ear to his leg to block out the noise, his hand to his other ear. The clicks of his mothers heels went scurrying down the tunnel of a stairwell along with the sound of quiet sobbing. The front door opened and closed , hard enough that the boy felt it from where he was sitting. A few moments later, his father came downstairs. His footsteps came down the hallway and stopped at the entrance of the kitchen. He turned on the light , blinding the boy for a second. He looked on the ground and noticed the blue scribbles. The image of his father came into focus. He could not see his eyes. Before the boy could open his mouth to cry........ A 19 year old boy sits on a twin sized bed in a small and unforgiving house. His mother is dead and he recognizes his father by his unique scent of smoke and alcohol. His room is dark. There is artwork thrown around carelessly. He is quiet. There are bags of drugs under his bed that he sells and uses. He leaves the blinds open enough that a beam of white light from the moon aids his sight as he prepares the lines he is about to inhale. His nose glides over the mirror and he sniffs it in. If he was paying attention, he might have been able to see his reflection. But he is not paying attention. He is aimlessly sitting on his bed with his shoes still on. The sound of his fathers loud footsteps make their way down the staircase. He hates that sound. He lays his head on his pillow and covers his other ear with his palm.