Drabble: Devastation

The day Tom Ryan died, the first thing that happened when Stephen, feeling drained both emotionally and physically, opened the door of his flat was that it jammed against Ryan's toolbox. Ryan was supposed to have taken it home weeks ago. The paint on the door was getting chipped it had banged against the bloody thing so many times. In the living room Ryan's magazines were on the table, a stray army regulation sock was on the mantelpiece, his CDs in a pile by the stereo. Stephen fell to his knees in the middle of the floor, dropped his head in his hands and cried.