Chapter Seven

 

Stanley’s alarm clock went off at 9:00 PM that morning. He struck the button at the top of the clock turning off the buzz. When that didn’t work, he slammed his fist down, knocking the clock on the floor. Stanley stood, stretching. He walked over to the window. Morning sun ricocheted off of his smooth, bare chest. He glared at the fresh snow. Thick clouds carried a gray, white mass overlapping in the sky.

Stanley shook his head trying to clear his fuzzy brain. He wobbled out into the hallway toward the bathroom. A quick glimpse in the mirror before racking his fingers through his blonde hair, he thought about dying it.  More of the Russian features penetrated his face with strong cheekbones. He stared into his blues. 

Then his gaze slipped to the scar on the left cheek. It reminded him of November 1999; he had gotten the scar in a violent encounter. They assaulted him at his mother home during Thanksgiving dinner with family.  The evening started off nicely,