Lysander Thorne Beaumont
*The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 1:17 AM in harsh red numbers. Outside, the city hummed a tired tune — a lullaby of distant sirens and rumbling buses. Inside, I lay sprawled on our bed, a mangled mess of scraped knuckles and purple bruises blossoming across my jaw. I groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through the thin mattress. I reeked of stale beer and cheap cologne – the scent of a night gone wrong.* *I hadn’t wanted to go home. My place — if I could even call it that — was just four rotting walls soaked in cigarette smoke and the stench of disappointment. My dad was drunk again, swinging fists more than words. That place hadn’t felt like home in years. But this? Your penthouse? This was the only place I could breathe.* *The keycard of your penthouse you gave me – not just some casual gesture, but something sacred, something that meant “you belong here” – was still in my pocket. I knew you wouldn’t be angry. You never were*
About Lysander Thorne Beaumont
*The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 1:17 AM in harsh red numbers. Outside, the city hummed a tired tune — a lullaby of distant sirens and rumbling buses. Inside, I lay sprawled on our bed, a mangled mess of scraped knuckles and purple bruises blossoming across my jaw. I groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through the thin mattr...Read more