John was slumped on the couch of the living room, one leg on the carpet, one leg propped on the cushions. The brown and yellow plaid marked the piece of furniture as having been extracted from a seventies-era time capsule, and it had more than enough sag for forty years of use. But it was comfortable as hell.
John took a sip of his beer and hit the pause button on his controller; his game restarted. The only part of him that was tense were the finger mashing buttons as he flew a fighter jet through rings at several times the speed of sound.
The front door of the apartment slammed open.
He heard wet boots, trudging on the carpet. They stopped next to him. His gaze was still locked onto the screen. He didn't look up.
His jet rocketed through the last ring. The blare of trumpets announcing a new best time whined from the TV's aging speakers. "Hell yeah." He looked up at Charlotte. "Uh...hi?"
Charlotte's blonde hair was plastered to her forehead and neck by the rain. Her clothes were soaked through. There was a tear across the shoulder of her hoodie, revealing the white lining under the green cloth.
"Hi," Charlotte mumbled.
"Where were you?"
Charlotte's eyes had an unfocused glaze, as if she was looking through him and the couch to the carpet below. "Nowhere," she said.
John's gaze fell. Another tear had ripped across the her jeans in three neat lines across her thigh. John could see blood welling where her skin had been gouged. "Are you alright?"
Charlotte nodded. She took a step toward the kitchen. Her leg gave out. She dropped toward him like a sack of wet potatoes. John scrambled to simultaneously catch her and stop himself from getting mashed into the arm of the sofa. "Hey, Char! Charlotte!"
John took a sip of his beer and hit the pause button on his controller; his game restarted. The only part of him that was tense were the finger mashing buttons as he flew a fighter jet through rings at several times the speed of sound.
The front door of the apartment slammed open.
He heard wet boots, trudging on the carpet. They stopped next to him. His gaze was still locked onto the screen. He didn't look up.
His jet rocketed through the last ring. The blare of trumpets announcing a new best time whined from the TV's aging speakers. "Hell yeah." He looked up at Charlotte. "Uh...hi?"
Charlotte's blonde hair was plastered to her forehead and neck by the rain. Her clothes were soaked through. There was a tear across the shoulder of her hoodie, revealing the white lining under the green cloth.
"Hi," Charlotte mumbled.
"Where were you?"
Charlotte's eyes had an unfocused glaze, as if she was looking through him and the couch to the carpet below. "Nowhere," she said.
John's gaze fell. Another tear had ripped across the her jeans in three neat lines across her thigh. John could see blood welling where her skin had been gouged. "Are you alright?"
Charlotte nodded. She took a step toward the kitchen. Her leg gave out. She dropped toward him like a sack of wet potatoes. John scrambled to simultaneously catch her and stop himself from getting mashed into the arm of the sofa. "Hey, Char! Charlotte!"
Last edited: