Timothy Baptiste tried so hard to catch his breath, after peddling his bike for nearly five miles. His legs burned, like battery acid had replaced the blood in them, as he tried to shower and change in five minutes.
Five minutes before Virginia, arrived.
Five minutes until she would be taking her son to the psychiatrist.
He hated the psychiatrist.
He hated the office, which was five miles away.
He hated that he had to go there twice a month since his dad died.
“Owww!!” He screamed as he stubbed the fresh cut on his hand; a sore he had made while going through the cabinets, and looking through bottles.
It was a sore that had bothered him all afternoon.
He slowed his dressing when he heard his mother come in, “Sweetie, your doctors appointment has been canceled.”

“Why? I was looking forward to it.”

“Seams the Dr. mistakenly drank some Drano, for scotch?”

“Is he O.K.?”

“He’s dead.” she replied while staring vacantly.
The boy smirked under his breath, “Took long enough.”