Chapter 4 Chapter 4 Monday Incident

Perry Darcy lifted the thick bed cover, kicked off the blanket with mismatched design and color, and his body exposed to the cold winter air shivered violently.He started to shiver all over.There is a voice in his head that always tempts him to sleep a little longer and set the alarm back 15 minutes. This idea has been dragging him, even the groggy hangover last night has not stopped his willpower to get up. "See?" the voice seemed to say, "It's been terribly cold this morning. Crawl back into the comfort of your bed. You deserve a day's rest." It had become his morning routine, the voice was always calling out to him, but he usually ignored it.He got up and walked from the bedroom into the small bathroom in two barefoot steps.It was icy cold on the linoleum floor.He closed the door and began to shower, which immediately filled with warm steam.The moment he stepped into the almost scalding water, the lingering morning sounds finally subsided, as usual.In three years he hadn't missed a day of work—never been late.He was pretty sure it was the same today.

He wiped his face vigorously, wide awake.He suddenly felt a little itchy on his left forearm, so he scratched it a few times with his thick nails.Perry turned off the shower and came out, grabbed a crumpled towel that hung over the shower curtain rod, and wiped himself.The water vapor was like a floating cloud, constantly winding and undulating with his every movement. It was more like a storage room with running water than a bathroom.To the right of the entrance is a small Formica washstand with a sink, the once clean white porcelain has been soaked into a rusty yellow color by the hard water mixture and the ever-tick-tick faucet.There was just enough room on the countertop for a toothbrush, a box of shaving cream, and a bar of chapped, dry soap.Other necessities are stored in medicine storage cabinets above the vanity.

Behind the sink is the toilet, and the other side of the toilet is almost next to the bathtub.The bathroom was so small that Perry could touch the wall farthest from him while sitting on the toilet without leaning forward.An assortment of used towels strewn across towel racks, shower curtain rods, and door handles in a rainbow of colors contrasts with the grey-green walls and rough tan linoleum floor . A rusty, dented digital scale is the only fixture in the room.He sighed helplessly and stepped on the scale.The horizontal line at the bottom of the ones indicator light on the LCD screen is not lit at all.That makes the last number look more like the letter A than the number 8, but it doesn't hide his weight: 268 pounds.

He steps off the scale.Another itch—this time on the left thigh—like a quick mosquito bite.The sudden discomfort made Perry twitch, and he scratched hard. Perry toweled his hair.Suddenly he stopped and flung his hand away.There was a pain above his left eyebrow—the kind that kills you when you accidentally touch a big rash. He wiped the steam off the mirror with a towel.A bushy, wiry red beard that covered the entire cheek, bright red stubble, and straight blond hair was, so far as Perry knew, the distinguishing features of all the men in the Darcy family.He wears his hair in a shawl, not because of fashion, but because it slightly conceals his uncanny resemblance to his father's facial features.The older he got, the more his face in the mirror resembled the one he most wanted to forget.

"Damn office work made me a fat man." He looked carefully at the rash above his eyebrows.It kind of looks like a rash, but it's also kind of... weird.A red, swollen pimple that seemed like something was biting him inside. What the hell is this? He leaned forward, skin almost touching the mirror as he squeezed the painful rash with his hands.It looked like a small thing had been poked out from under the tight skin.This thing... seems to be black?a little bit.He tried again with his fingernail, but the place hurt.Maybe a hair growing in it, or something like that.He didn't care much, let it grow first, and he will clean it up later.

Perry reached for shaving cream.He always takes a good look at himself in the mirror before shaving and brushing his teeth, not to be smug, but to see if his body is getting old. In college, he was a strong, chiseled, 6-foot-5, 250-pound, muscular player who certainly lived up to his status as a well-deserved Big Ten football linebacker.However, in the seven years since a knee injury ended his athletic career, his physique has begun to change, with fat accumulating and inactive muscle groups receding.But he wasn't fat by anyone's standards, and his physique would still attract the attention of many women, but only Perry could see the difference.

He shaves, puts mousse on his hair, brushes his teeth, and thus completes the routine he repeats every morning.Perry rushed out of the bathroom and into the cold room.He whips on jeans, an old AC/DC rock band concert T-shirt and a San Francisco 49ers sweatshirt.Finally, to fight the cold, he went to the corner of the kitchen. He reached for a jam tart in the cupboard.A sudden sharp itching made him raise his back involuntarily, itching and hurting, this time it was on the spine under the shoulder blades.Perry reached under his clothes and scratched his shoulders. He scratched until the itch went away, wondering if he had a rash or maybe the dry winter weather had caused his skin to be dehydrated.Perry took a box of jam pies.A digital clock on the mantel reads 8:36 AM.Popping a piece of cherry jam pie into his mouth, Perry took two steps to the computer desk and began stuffing documents into the battered briefcase covered in duct tape.He was supposed to get work done this weekend, but the Chiefs played football with the Raiders on Saturday, and then he spent Sunday watching sports on TV.On Sunday night, he stayed up as usual to go to the bar to watch the game. The Lions lost nothing.He closed the briefcase, put on his coat, grabbed the keys, and hurried out of the room.

Down three flights of stairs, he exited the building.With the cutting cold of Michigan in January, it felt like thousands of tiny needles pricking my face and hands.The breath he exhaled also turned into wisps of white mist. He stuffed another piece of marmalade pie into his mouth and walked towards his rusty 12-year-old Ford. He jumped into the driver's seat and closed the door.The morning sun cast a hazy white light through the frost-covered windows.