A Short Story : A Story?

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The cold January night was leaden with fog and street lights seemed to stream like golden rays. A woman sat slumped in her bed, her belly drooped from each side of the bed as the television’s flickering white light glowed against her face and against the walls. There was no light bulb hanging from the ceiling just a wire. Magazines, dirty plates and burn marks scattered themselves densely across the carpet. Upon the walls was a dark brown-gray glue, smelling of smoke. She had been accustom to this manor of living for years now. The whisper of a creak sounded from the doorway, the bed appeared to jolt from under her. A short silhouette stood at the doorway. “Oh Leo!” she shouted, “You almost gave me a heart attack–”. “Sorry” a voice immature and high in pitch muttered. “I’ve told you to knock. How many times do I need to tell you?” “I’m sorry mum, I thought you’d be asleep.” The woman sighed. “Get mummy’s sweets, poppet” Her voice quietened to a whisper with suggestions of affection. “Where are–“ “They’re on the floor, in the white and blue box” She gestured to them “Look there” As the silhouette neared and entered the television’s light, a head of straggly dark hair shined. Leo reached down, picked up the box. The effortlessness of such a trivial task Leo displayed triggered a queer sense of envy within her, a dark deep envy that seemed to corrode her very core like an acid. She knew it was wrong to feel as such but she couldn’t even scarcely remember the last time she

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