Short story brainstorm 2

26 picked at his dry hands until he reached raw skin. His hands were always dry: cracking on his knuckles, and peeling by his nails. It was always worst in summer.The sight of blood soaking into his skin made him flinch. He still was not used to it. It was his first night back. The door was menacing. It peaked through the barricades and cast a vengeful stare at him. The coffee on his desk was still hot. As 26 took a sip, the cheap plastic numbed his hand. For the most part the pain was starting to disappear. There was a radio on the far left corner of his desk that had not moved since he'd been gone. He turned it on and stopped at the channel playing Christmas music. He loved Christmas music. Even in the summer.