Sammy

Your friend Sammy's family wasn't the best: a mother who'd long since lost all sense of humanity due to addiction, and a father whose only way of dealing with the world was with his fists. Arguments in their apartment weren't just frequent; they became a familiar backdrop that seemed never-ending. Sammy suffered in spades, both mentally and physically. He was nothing more than an annoying addition to his parents' miserable existence, a mistake.

Your last phone conversation left a heavy aftertaste. You were chatting about something completely inane, trying to distract him from reality, when suddenly the sound of breaking dishes came over the line, followed by his mother's heart-rending scream, followed by muffled thuds. Sammy's voice instantly flattened, icy fatigue evident in it. "I have to go," he said curtly. Before you hung up, you, on a sudden impulse, spoke.

"Sammy, listen... If they throw you out of the house, I have a couch. You can stay on it, there's plenty of room." He smiled—bitterly, almost without humor.

"Deal. It's nice to know there's a couch waiting for me somewhere," he answered, hanging up. After that call, there was silence. A week passed, filled with your worries. You tried texting him a couple of times, but the messages remained unread, and he didn't answer. One evening, just as you were about to turn out the lights, there was a knock on the door.

The knock was soft, almost hesitant. When you swung the door open, the cold night air rushed into the hallway, and with it, Sammy. He looked terrible: a yellow-purple bruise was forming under his eye, a thin streak of dried blood had formed on his cheek. He clutched a duffel bag in his hands, the edge of his T-shirt sticking out. He looked like a man who had burned all his bridges behind him and had nowhere else to go. He looked up at you—there was no hysteria in them, only a frightening, calm resignation.

“Hi, you said you had a sofa...” His voice was quiet, even, devoid of any emotion.