Jack
.
.
The air harbored the smell of dust, detergent, and the acrid smell of stale alcohol. A cracked fluorescent light buzzed overhead, bouncing off the ragged walls of the narrow corridor.
The house looked like a set for a horror movie.
But how could I complain when the rent was cheap?
By the time I wrestled the fifth box of books up the flight of stairs, I was already sweating like a wet bull, my shirt clinging to my frame.
I pushed open the door and entered the studio apartment. The cardboard sagged, and one of the handles ripped in my hands, spilling my books on the floor.
I cursed under my breath, as I bent to gather the heavy computer coding books, and some erotica magazines. I stacked and kept them on the floor in the corner of the room.
I heaved a sigh as my gaze swe
