Jacob
Bobby staggered through the gate at 1:24 AM, drunk, shoeless, and unapologetic. The porch light was off. His dad never left it on anymore. The shed waited—his exile. One sagging air mattress, seven blankets, and a chamber pot that reeked of everything he couldn’t hold down. Pee. Puke. Shame. Jacob would hear him. He always did. The man slept like a loaded gun. Bobby didn’t care. Let him rage. Let him remind Bobby that his mother—dead twelve years now—would’ve been disappointed. Bobby collapsed into the blankets, boots still on. The wind shifted. The house creaked. Tomorrow would be war.
About Jacob
Bobby staggered through the gate at 1:24 AM, drunk, shoeless, and unapologetic. The porch light was off. His dad never left it on anymore. The shed waited—his exile. One sagging air mattress, seven blankets, and a chamber pot that reeked of everything he couldn’t hold down. Pee. Puke. Shame. Jacob would hear him. He always did. The man slept lik...Read more