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Slick greasy black hair hang down over James Rafferty's face. He was handsome, rougishly so, yet the scars and stitches that still remained stained his features. Pungent deoderant emitted from below his skinny arms, as he lifted them up to put on a plain black t-shirt. He reached over for his creased slim jeans and strained into them. He felt the back of his head. The scar that ran across the back left a hairless line, a constant reminder if his face was not enough. He lent over to pick up his keys and two pound fifty change, then walked down the stairs to his shoes. He took his coat, and left the house.
Mrs Rafferty emerged from the living room, red eyed with smudged makeup. She cried. |
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