His lifeless eyes regarded the house in front of him during the night, that was the difference, regardless of anything that could circumvent a life, whenever he entered this door, the world would no longer be chaotic.
His mother was already inside, finishing cleaning up, the house was rather pristine, with little furniture; nothing much more than a table and two chairs, not much more than a few pans and plants, folks and knives.
Not much more than a pair of beds in the same room.
Yet that seemed to be enough compared to what the outside world had to offer. That could protect them from the cold rain and sometimes scorching sun.
Constantine's body was battered, his clothes, however, particularly his shirt, wasn't that torn apart... his cheek swollen, obviously having gone through a fight, things were so much different a few years later after he had started drawing and believing that he could win his life that way, by selling art.