(no subject)
He really wishes he was someone else.
Sitting at his desk, flipping through papers, it's all his mind goes on. His eyes glance on a picture of a murdered blonde, her blue eyes wide opened. Her name is Tanya. She looks like a surfer.
Will Beachum, surfer extraordinaire. The waves are his calling as he puts aside responsibility for a good time. The goodtimes always come first.
Another picture falls out. Brunette this time. Eyes closed in a solemn repose and her hands meet below her chin.
Will Beachum, clergyman. The flock is his concern, their spiritual belief his priority. Everyone else before yourself. It's God's way, even if they fall and stumble along the way. The shephard's crook is for the shephard's own balance. Fuck the sheep.
Crime scene photo. Tables littered with drug paraphanelia. Chairs pushed on the floor.
Will Beachum, custodial engineer. He looks good in the blue overalls, sweeping, cleaning. What does it matter what went on in the room? It's his job to clean it, make it look like new. Erase the past and look to the future.
Shutting the file, he rubs his face vigorously and looks at the clock. It's only ten at night, nothing too extreme but instanly, he starts to do the math in his head. If he stays here another hour, it'll be eleven. Half hour to clean up. Eleven thirty. Twenty minutes home. Eleven fifty. Another half hour to the Narrows. Midnight and twenty.
That gives him two hours at least to fuck the thoughts away.
But he can't.
Not after the admonishment Rachel gave him. Not when Alice is sending him text messages, wanting to know if he'll be home tonight so he can sleep. How is that someone can worry about you when you're not even around? One day he'll ask her.
He's trying to accept who he is.
Will Beachum. Husband. Lawyer. Friend. Fuck up.
And if that means sitting on his hands, doing puzzles all night, fighting the insomnia that seems to want to consume him, so be it.
He just wants to be Will again.