Downstairs, Grandpa’s listless hand lowered the needle. He reclined. His chair was as starchy soft as the scratched record’s hiss. Sister Rosetta flowed above that sound as the Decca spun.
The hiss faded as the music warmly flooded the hallway, and only she got to the top of the stairs. The bathroom light, faulty, pinged and zapped above Rosetta’s mellifluous tones, making Freddy’s ear occasionally twitch.
Freddy’s puffy bitten right hand was closed around a dirty cup of water. In his other he grasped an unscrewed rizla, pills in its centre. His television, black and white, reflected across the hall in the bathroom mirror, seemed to depict a still image — until a hand moved, and a
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