Cian Doyle - Fiction

https://theoviebooks.wordpress.com/ The apartment stank of cheap whiskey, burnt coffee, and regret. The kind of regret that clings to your skin like the smell of something that should have been cleaned up years ago but was left to rot instead. Mike and Jerry sat in the dim haze, their apartment a mausoleum for the lives they hadn’t lived. The walls were yellow, peeling like old skin, covered in dust and a quiet kind of neglect. The furniture, what little of it remained, was a collection of mi