Friday nights were always the same, he dragged in stinking of beer, she expected it even left the porch light on too prevent falls. He was an easy drunk, never making it down the hall instead passing out on the floor where she would throw a blanket over him after the requisite 20-minute wait time.
Tonight was different; she smelled the sour tang of blood and vomit as soon as the door opened. She heard him howling in pain. He stumbled into the bedroom, head lolling to the side, teeth blackened as if by scurvy, weeping.
Who was he?
Flash in the Pan is brought to you by the amazing Red of M3 fame
This week’s word is Scurvy. The word limit is 100 words. This one comes in at 99.
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