I wake up sore, breathing heavily, angry at the world.
Looking around, the peeling wallpaper glares back at me, a reminder of my terrible decision. The decision that cost me my marriage, my good job, and my children. I lightly step across the floor, wincing as I feel the weak boards yield beneath my feet. Opening the door, I hear a loud creak as it slowly swings open. I step outside, tattered shoes slapping the pavement beneath. Sighing, I head out for groceries.
When I come back, I find my room ransacked. My covers are pushed aside, and my dresser drawers hang out unevenly. I check under my bed and find my tin of emergency funds empty. My careful pile of stacked books lay scattered on the floor. My curses echo across the street.
I come back to my senses, though still quite shocked.
I pull my sheets back into position, and just when I thought things might've been looking up, a medium-sized brown pouch falls onto the ground. Curious, I pull off the sack and gasp. A microwave. I haven't had a microwave for years.
Why did he bring a microwave?