Apartment B-15

Part 1

Jeff slammed the gray apartment door behind him with all the strength that remained in his aching and tired body. He leaned with his back on the door and his right hand covering the torn skin and sticky blood that smothered the meaty part of his left shoulder. Blood escaped from underneath his hand and trickled down his arm as his weight shifted and he slid to the floor. Tiny flakes of peeled paint poked at his back. He buried his face in the cradle of his arm, gritting his teeth and trying to think of anything but the pain which gnawed at his shoulder.

The living room swirled around Jeff's vision. The less than decadant decor, mostly furniture salvaged from yard sales and Goodwill danced around the room. The horribly loud bright green couch, less than vivid these days thanks to food stains and duct tape that sealed the fabric's tears, while in reality a few feet away, shrank in the distance as Jeff peeked at it through in between his knees. If he could just reach it, pull himself up enough to sink down on its well-worn cushions, and forget about the pain for a while he'd be all right.

Jeff lifted his head up, trying to motivate his brain to take action. Removing his hand from his wound, the bleeding didn't seem to be so severe now, he reached up for the dull brass doorknob to use for support as he lifted himself up. He almost toppled over of the dizzyness from the combined sudden rush to his head and the still-present nausea. He steadied himself with the wall's support, holding back the strong feeling building up in the back of his throat that was telling him to vomit. He swallowed hard, suppressing that urge as it repeatedly climbed back up and, feeling that he defeated that desire, stumbled over to the back of the sofa, tumbling over it in a half-sommersault, half-roll manuever.