As the door closed behind him, a putrid smell of cigarette smoke immediately assaulted his nostrils. It wasn't anything new, though, just another day in paradise.
Andy carefully scaled the steps leading to the living room. His halo bumped against the top of the doorframe.
"Shi... Shh."
A quick, sharp jolt of pain ran down his spine. Even despite his rather short height, the only thing he never really got used to in this apartment were the unnecessarily low ceilings and doorframes His dad never seemed to mind, though. Never complained about it, at least.
Though, it's not like they talked much, anyway.
Thoroughly soaked and shivering, Andy made his way through the living room, hoping to leave the least amount of rainwater sinking into the moldy floorboards. What a mess. Maybe he should've just skipped the fountain diving.
Without thinking much of any fashion norms, he threw on a set of fresh clothes. Thankfully he left a strategic pile on the living room's couch, which really complimented the overall deplorable condition of the flat.
Now to grab something to eat. The kitchen was completely empty, with dirty dishes piling up in the sink. The stench was almost bad enough to break through all that cigarette odor. Almost.
He reached towards the small, cubical fridge, hoping to find something at least half edible inside. A few empty shelves, a bunch of frozen, factory made dinners. Guess it's gonna be a Lasagna type of night.
As the pasta block kept spinning inside the little radioactive box, Andy switched on the radio. It was old. Maybe even as old as this dump. It immediately picked up a military broadcast, his favorite.
"... Even with additional mercenary forces moving in from the west, they were unable to break the apostolic knights' wills. While our peacekeeping forces remain in control of the situation, we strongly urge all and any citizens to help the cause, in the name of the Law. Again, we urge any and all citizens to chip in. Fight for the cause, fight for peace not only in Kazdel, but the entirety of Terra! Remember, if you're over fifteen, you can enlist at your local monastery and-..."
Andy adjusted the radio's frequency knob.
Enlistment, huh?
The recruiter's ever so increasingly desperate pleas were drowned out by the sounds of a classic rock solo as he turned to the microwave. Wonder how his father felt about this whole war ordeal. How would he feel if his only son were to… Nah, that's a dumb thought.
Where was the old man, anyway? Probably in his den, slumped over a parchment roll and bawling his eyes out.
Andy's sigh grew dim as the microwave oven finally beeped. He couldn't eat it here. Not with all these dirty plates and this goddamn cigarette smoke.
His room wasn't much better. It would be best described as sad but positive at the same time. A real contradiction.
Plaster falling off the ceiling, a lack of furniture other than the bare essentials, a large window to peek out of, imagining a brighter future. The walls were the positive contrast here, being covered with bright, loud posters of bands from far away lands. Kazimierzan black metal cults, Idol groups from Lungmen, even those devilish Sarkaz rock 'n roll quartets, grinning down upon him from the main stages of countries he's only ever heard of in school or on the radio. There wasn't even a TV in this hovel.
The chair creaked as Andy sat behind his wooden desk, staring at the glistening, plastic cheese. The unorthodox amount of calories hiding within the gooey substance seemed like a fair trade for the amount of flavor it provided (which, honestly, wasn't much, anyway).
Something about this quiet little moment felt unnaturally calming. Maybe it was the soothing rain assaulting his half closed window. Maybe, simply, the blissful feeling of knowing it was Friday. Once again, he gave the dish a thorough look-over. Apparently, it was supposed to be a staple of Siracusan cuisine. He dug right in, thinking of how nice a vacation in Siracusa would be. Just a day or two in paradise. An escape from daily mundanity and the never ending chase for a purpose in life. The pointless search for your own place in the world.
Some higher power, other than the Law must've been steering all his peers, forcing them to take on such a difficult feat at such a young age. Where's the fun in worrying about the future? About what brand of car's gonna drive you to your funeral or what suit to spend the rest of eternity in, buried six feet under. None of that would matter in Siracusa, probably. Most likely. So he would hope. It had to be nicer than Laterano, surely.
He kept nudging the greasy remains of his meal with a fork. The prospect of finishing this abomination of a dish stirred something deep within him, both mentally and physically. Andy dragged himself to the kitchen and threw the unfinished plate into the fridge. A worry for his future self. Not right now.
On the way back to his room, he passed by "The Den". The source of all this cigarette stench.
An unreachable destination of many of his thoughts and wonders.
Purgatory, otherwise known as his dad's "studio".
The old man hasn't made a sound the entire time, which made Andy a tad bit worried. Sitting there, in all that smoke, letting it seep into his brain, chewing on it like a flock of moths feasting on some old drapes. The least Andy could do was open a window and let some fresh air in.
He knocked on the door. Once. Twice. Eventually, feeling bold enough, even a third time. No response, at all. Hopes low, Andy pushed the antique, paint stripped obstacle forward and stepped inside.
Instantly, it became clear that a simple airing out wouldn't suffice. A pair of gas masks and an industrial vacuum, maybe.
The smoke was so thick that Andy could barely see anything. Assaulting his poor eyes and nostrils, biting and stinging his senses, the fumes had the upper hand. However, having fought this battle many times before, the boy knew exactly what to do. With a sweater pulled over his face, he pushed on forward, breaking through the smokescreen and reaching the studio's window. It swung wide open, giving Andy the upper hand. It took a few moments before the smoke started clearing out, drastically improving visibility. Out the window, went all the smoldering cigarette ends filling the endless ashtrays. Why'd he need so many, anyway? To make the room more difficult to air? Come on.
The battle had finally been won as he dispatched the remaining enemy forces (threw 'em out the window), lifting the burden off his shoulders and dumping it onto some poor, underpaid (probably liberi) street sweeper. Finally, he could get a better look at the room. Nothing much changed from the last time he managed to sneak in here. The furniture was a mess, the walls were covered by mountains of papers, stacked atop one another, the ceiling light kept flickering every few seconds...
Andy's room felt like a five star hotel, compared to this. Amidst all this mess, sat the biggest mess of all. The man himself, Andy's father. Laying his upper body flat on the cheap, oak desk, head buried in-between his arms. He was snoring softly, presumably after pulling yet another all nighter. The two shared many characteristics, looks wise, less, personality wise - gray, curly hair, rather small frames, certain facial features and those blank, grayish eyes. In Andy's case, they were usually filled with sparks of some childish joy. His father had already lost all of it.
What was once a semi well respected official of the Notarial Hall itself, now rotted away in this little room in one of the worst parts of town. Andy barely even remembers their old house and the times before his dad started pouring his grief and sadness onto paper. It was nice. Real nice. Spacious, warm, with floorboards that didn't creak and walls that weren't falling apart. Good thing he was too young to get properly used to living large.
As he glanced over at the desk, his sight quickly latched onto a few freshly written pieces. Poems. Laments. Same old stuff. Same old grief, same old sadness, all that. Written in such a way, that Andy could never grasp what they were actually about, beyond the obvious "I'm sad and miss my wife."
But he wasn't the only one who didn't get the appeal, as these pieces just weren't catching on anywhere. No matter how hard his father tried to find a publisher and a following, they'd always flop. People weren't interested in reading the insane ramblings of some middle aged man, writing about his dead wife, no. They wanted foreign politics and cheap, fast paced action movies from Yan.
Something caught his eye. A framed picture of two young people, dressed in Michelangelo University uniforms, standing beneath a stone pine. A man and a woman, grinning warmly at the camera. The only picture of his mother he's ever seen. Andy couldn't feel very attached to someone he's never even got a chance to know at all. She passed way too soon for that.
Papers rustled as he skimmed through a few of his dad's newest works, noticing he's even signed one or two. The words "Raphael Reiff" stood proudly in the top right corner, meaning these scribbles were to be sent somewhere. Sometimes, small-time newspapers would publish his ramblings, for a few francs each. He'd write obituaries, too, since bills didn't just pay themselves and food wasn't free. Putting bread on the table (or, rather, in the fridge), was one of the very few signs of care and affection his father would ever show him. Other than that, they barely even talked.
The boy never aspired to be like him. Hell, he did everything he could not to end up like the old man, yet there was still a little voice in his head, yearning for his attention and affirmation. A single "I'm proud of you, son", or a pat on the back. With his lack of vision for a well thought out future, he knew it was a nebulous, unreachable dream. Andy sighed and threw a blanket over his sleeping, cigarette smoke permeated father. Was it out of love? Or the fact that they couldn't afford him catching a cold? Gloomy and cold outside, slightly less cold and gloomy inside. He made his way back to the scuffed room and threw himself on the bed, not before grabbing some dumb, brain debilitating comic book.
What a day.
"At least there's no school tomorrow."