Hatesex, for Renae :3
The last things Tom could remember were the sound of Sarah pulling her gun’s trigger, and the immediate pain of it’s trajectory. Then, the explosion hit, and with it came darkness. He wasn’t sure what happened between then and now, but he can guess. Harry had figured out a way to survive, like always, and now here he was. Sitting on the edge of a shitty motel bed in god knows where with one hell of a side ache. He must have gotten into a hospital at some point, but he can’t remember, and since he’s not in a jail cell right now, he can only guess what Harry told the doctors about his identity or health insurance.
To be honest, he’s not sure he wants to know.
But he always has been the curious type, and never one to leave well enough alone. A little google searching and he had found the articles, even an obituary condemning him.
“HORROR HITS HARMONY AS HANNIGER HEIR KILLS NINE!”
The papers had screamed, carrying on and on about his demented psyche and trouble past. They took quotes from those that had known him, the smallest detail blown wide open in the harsh, unforgiving, media spotlight. It made him sick. He should have never gone back to Harmony. He should have found a way to the other side of the world and stayed put until he died. Then none of this would have happened. And Sarah-
Well. Sarah would have been better off thinking he was dead. Now, she still thought he was dead, but only after leaving a trail of wreckage three miles wide.
Scrubbing at his eyes with a tired sigh, Tom stretched gingerly and stood, padding across the room to take a seat at the desk. It was small, but stocked with generic stationary and shitty pens. A bible, phone book, and a phone were also amongst it’s items. What a haul he thought idly, picking up the Chester Hill phone book (population 918) and thumbing through adds for various take-out places. Nothing looked interesting and he closed it with another sigh.
Hungry, dazed, and discouraged, Tom got back up and pulled on his shirt and jacket. He mused bitterly over the fact that his new clothes were only a result of getting shot by the woman he loved, but that was just his luck. Grumbling and sliding on his shoes, he grabbed the room key and headed out, only stopping to glance in the wall mirror. He looked...alright. He guessed. Clean at least. Tom thumbed over the bridge of his nose, now slightly crooked from a break he never remembered getting, and left. There was a diner down the street and at this point, even that greasy shit was better than starving to death.
The fluorescent lights were harsh, and gave an annoying buzz, but Tom didn't particularly mind nor did he realize just how shitty and run down he looked. to be fair, though, if you were shot three months ago and living on means you didn't understand, you probably wouldn't be doing too well, either. He ate in peace, curled into a corner booth, and politely paid and left when he was finished, heading back to the motel. There was a bench outside with his name on it. the whole thing wasn't anything of interest, but it was a small routine. And in his years of roaming, he could appreciate a nice waitress who didn't ask too many questions.
Three months he had been at this. Staying in that shitty room at The Chester Motel. Doing a whole lot of fuck all. Truth be told it was getting pretty damn boring.