Red and black markings on a wall. Stick figures drawn. Straight lines and circles. Two of the figures are holding hands. One is taller than the other. The shorter one holds a red balloon attached to a black string. A truck is drawn on the wall as well.  It is red and says Ford on the side in small black letters. Above it is a statement; Bobby was here.

A toilet flushes weakly. A running toilet sound will not stop. The old man shakes the handle and lifts the lid, looking at the mechanism. He holds a copper rod connected to a pump. The sound stops. He releases it, and the running toilet sound begins again. Just like most things in his life, he gives up on fixing it. This running toilet haunts him as he walks into the main room and sees drawings and sentences on the wall. 

Goddammit, he says. Can’t have anything nice. The old man stares at the stick figures and Bobby’s statement. Bobby was here, he says. Bobby was here. The moans from the toilet stop while the hum of the refrigerator gets loud, then soft. The old man places his hands over his ears.

Bobby was here, he says out loud. I know he was here. He didn’t have to tell me. Didn’t have to write it on the wall. Just like his mother. Always trying to make a statement. Trying to make folks think about them.

There are empty bottles of Fireball lying around. He kicks one across the floor like a soccer ball. Then, he kicks another and another. He lays down on the couch and pulls the blanket up to his chin. Picks up the remote and points it at the busted TV. Damn thing.