writing exercise

The front door creaked open on rusted hinges mimicking his own stiff joints. Shoulders slumped he entered the hallway dropped his coat on to the hook and emptied his pockets into a haphazard heap in the change bowl by the door. Without turning he used the heel of one foot to nudge the door shut behind him. His weary cadence echoed down the narrow hall, as he dragged one shoe in front of the other. With each foot fall his body seemed to settle lower on to its frame. Entering the cramped kitchen on the left his feet followed a familiar path across the worn linoleum floor towards the tiny fridge. Dingy yellow light spilled across the dark room as the mostly bare shelves greeted him.
A stick of butter only showing slight signs of mold, a jar containing a faded yellow paste, possibly old mayo or faded mustard, and half a dried onion whose withered rings pushed out to resemble some form off modern art. His bloodshot eyes sweeped the mildewed landscape to settle on two brown bottles sitting in the fruit drawer. He grabbed both beers and shuffled across the hall to his shadow filled living room. The worn carpet could have started life as any number of colors but time and tradgedy had reduced it to a dappled brown. Any stain trying to stand out was quickly subdued by the numerous spills, dirty footprints, and cigar burns covering the room. He placed the beers on a small end table beside a sunfaded flannel armchair. Condensation dripped down the glass to add to the overlaying watermarks on the wooden surface. He eyed the black and white television across the room, hesitated for a moment and instead walked over to the one small window facing out over the city street. Pushing up on the window with one hand he hammered his fist against the frame until it broke loose and slid up. A light breeze fluttered the curtains carrying with it the sound of honking horns and the soft murmer of many voices. You couldn't exactly call city air fresh, especially in the middle of summer. A bouquet of sweaty people, greasy cooked meals, and bags of garbage perfumed with a hint of car exhaust. Still, it was better than this stuffy apartment. He breathed in deep the evening air and slumped into his arm chair sending out small dust clouds. The motes drifted through the air, the setting sun caused each one to sparkle like tiny hanging constellations. He admired this and opened a bottle. The cool beer washed away the dry taste of dust and with it the stresses of the day. He could feel the knots in his back loosen and his headache lessen. His stomach no longer felt like a dried up husk. When was the last time he'd eaten? Stress was taking its toll but he had a job to do. Not just a job but a responsibility. He glanced towards the hall where he left his badge and keys, and was struck again by how heavy such a small piece of metal could be.

He was less than 3 weeks into this latest case but it was already beginning to take its toll. His eyes slid out of focus as his mind cycled through the details, each one flickering past like a morbid slide show. He shook his head to break the spell and stared out the window at street below.