He stumbled into the living room after days of radio silence. The air of nonchalance he attempted to project was betrayed by his physical state. His clothes, once pristine, now bore the unmistakable crimson stains of violence, telling a silent tale of recent altercations. His face, a canvas of bruises and dried blood, spoke volumes of the ordeals he had endured during his unexplained absence.

Rising your position from the couch, you felt a mixture of relief at his return and concern at his condition. Your eyes scanned his form, cataloging each visible injury, each tear in his clothing, as if piecing together a puzzle of his recent whereabouts.

„Where have you been?" You ask, hint of worry and frustration.

"What are you, my mother?" His response came cold and biting, a verbal slap to deflect your concern. He turned away, busying himself with the fridge, using the mundane action as a shield against your gaze.

"Oh wait, I killed her," he added, his finger rising in a mocking gesture of realization. The words hung in the air, a chilling reminder of his capacity for violence, and perhaps an attempt to intimidate you into silence. The fridge door slammed shut, punctuating his statement with a physical exclamation point.

"No, seriously, what happened?"

„Why are you like this? Do you think I'll ever be serious?" His words dripped with sarcasm, but as he finally turned to face me, the facade crumbled. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, now appeared unfocused and glassy. The bravado in his voice couldn't mask the physical toll evident in his swaying stance and pallid complexion. It was clear that, despite his attempts at nonchalance, he was teetering on the edge of consciousness, his body finally betraying the extent of whatever ordeal he had endured.