Backhand

He was no longer accustomed to awakening this way. The hangover threw him for a loop, but his past alcoholic instincts kicked in and he quickly scrounged around the kitchen cupboards for his sister's weed.

He found the pipe.

After placing it on the petri dish he resumed scrambling for the goods.

BAM. Right behind the foreign coffee, not the Maxwell House stuff; like she always did.

The terrace provided all the types of freedom available before she moved in. He loved his sister, but the trick she pulled to move herself into his apartment was a cunning feet worthy of either only Satan or Santa Claus - and he hated them both because each represented his father's fist against his face while his sister was abusively relinquished under holiday cheer.

He hated her too. But he loved her. She was his sister, and every time he saw her he could not help but think about all of those years when he was knocked around the house by their drunken father while their passive mother stood by and watched until she was born - then all three of them watched while the drunken father knocked his ass from room to room while their passive mother never said a word, never lifted a hand to protect him; never disinfected the cuts running crimson downside his body.

But it all came back in that sadistic evening. His greatest girlfriend told him to meet her there. The love of his life was expecting him to be there. He walked into that bar, only to see the love of his life kissing the ex-boyfriend of her life.

She saw him.

He walked out.

She ran after him.

He dipped into the soul of the only spirit that ever knew him. He dipped into the city's shadows. She ran right past him, calling his name. Maybe she was sorry, but he didn't care. He knew what he saw. He knew what he felt. It was dad's backfist all over again.