John

John's bed was unmade, his coat thrown across it, riddled with bullet holes. John opened the refrigerator door, ignoring the cloying smell of stale air and almost-spoiled food, and grabbed a can of coke. Flopping down in his squeaky but comfortable chair, he opened the can and drank deeply. He sighed and held the cold can to the large, blue and purple swelling over his right eye. After a few minutes the cold metal had taken the edge off the pain, and he put it down. Grimacing with pain, he carefully removed his crimson t-shirt. It had been white that morning.