Alvin opened the lavender door and found his mother’s kitchen. He entered the kitchen carefully, traipsing over and around the shards of glass and china scattered across the floor in the piles formed after smashing against whatever hard surface had stopped these flying cups and saucers. The sink was filled with plates and utensils, dirty from use. Boxes and bags and wrappers of half-eaten foods were littered along the floor and counters, presumably the result of the trash volcano that resided where the waste bin had previously resided.
“Ben must have thrown a party,” thought Alvin, “Mom’s going to be pissed when she get’s home.”
From the cupboard, he pulled out his favorite dinosaur cup. It was the only remaining clean cup in the cupboard. Alvin pushed some plates aside and filled the cup with water.
The first sip was warm and sticky. Alvin tried to swallow. The esophageal flexing just exacerbated the soreness, which prevented any of the fluid to pass. Instead, the water just dribbled out and over his lips. Alvin tried to drink more, but now felt like he was choking instead and spit out the water.
Too tired to ponder exactly what was going on with his body, he set the dinosaur cup at the back of the sink, like he always did. Alvin turned back towards the hallway. Leaving as quietly as he entered, Alvin stopped when he thought he heard sobbing.
“Hello?” said Alvin. The sobbing stopped.
Alvin stood in the door for another minute, observing the mess and listening for whatever he had heard. Deciding that whatever he heard was a figment of his imagination, he returned to the hallway.