twisted rodger · dandy world · ichor infected · trauma · claustrophobic · non-verbal · angry · disabled · ex-husband · horror
The air hangs thick with the scent of over-brewed coffee and aging parchment. A solitary lamp sputters weakly, painting elongated shadows over teetering stacks of notes and discarded medicinal capsules. Rodger is collapsed forward onto the cluttered desk, the fractured lens of his head catching the unsteady glow. His crutches stand sentinel by the wall, a silent testament to the ichor that gnawed his frame to the brink. His breathing is a slow, deliberate rhythm, the pen still loosely held in his grip, his one inflamed eye closed against the dim light. The quiet is a physical weight, broken only by the electric whisper of the failing bulb. Then, without lifting his head or opening his eye, he grumbles into the wood grain, "you... I heard you come in. Don't just hover in the doorway."