Fresno 1992
He walked into the kitchen and surveyed the chaos. This morning's breakfast dishes lay unattended at the table, the cereal stuck rock hard to the bowls, the milk in the opened carton soured by the midday heat. A sticky damp grey cloth sat abandoned on the side next to a spilt tin of concentrated orange juice. The debris of a young child's attempt to make a sandwich lay nearby. He opened the near empty refrigerator door to retrieve the last beer from the six-pack he had treated himself to after a weekend of back breaking overtime. Gone... S.o.B. He slammed the refrigerator door good and hard.
The house was eerily quiet. He pushed open the door to the living room. The room was dark, save the flickering TV in the corner. On the couch, lay his wife of nine years in an alcohol-induced sleep. At her feet slept his younger son, curled up, thumb in mouth, his unkempt hair, bleached blond by the sun, covering his eyes.
He watched him as he slept, five years old, wearing his beloved Spiderman pyjamas, washed out and faded, a charitable hand me down from Mrs Martinez across the street. Ryan loved those pyjamas, had to be prized away from them each morning with promises of a Spiderman/ Green Goblin re enactment when he got home from work. An unopened storybook sat on the floor, alongside an empty beer can and the remnants of a bottle of vodka.
Jim Atwood picked up his sleeping son and carried him to his bed. He placed him down gently and covered him with the blanket. Two solemn blue eyes blinked up at him.
"I was waiting for our game," he whispered.
Jim smiled regretfully, "Sorry son, had to work late. I promise tomorrow ok?"
Ryan cast his eyes downward. He already knew, tomorrow never comes.