YELLOW FLOWERS
He slept on a hide-a-bed without the sofa. He lay on white sheets peppered with yellow flowers that did not complement the girlish paint on the walls. The bed had a sag mid-back, and the metal of the frame had an underlying coldness that seemed to leak through the mattress.
“Stop it. Stop it. Enough,” was growled loud enough to waken him. From the timbre of the voices, the boy determined money. The argument was relatively calm for another couple of minutes. Screams and the sounds of shoves, slaps, and punches slithered under his bedroom door and swirled in the lavender room.
Their bedroom door opened and he heard one set of footsteps dart past his room, down the front hall and out the door. Powerful, methodical steps followed. The front screen opened and slammed.
The three pops were unmistakable. The boy expected that his mother was dying on the next door lawn that he cut for five bucks every week.
He rose quietly, and through his cracked door he saw a sliver of his naked father, cock swinging, stomping across the periwinkle carpet with his .30-06 in his left hand.
The boy returned to his bed, pulled up the covers and waited for one more pop.