SOLO LOG; eliminate the improbable; JANSEN
when; two days ago.
Apartments come cheap, and they come easy to fill with furniture and belongings and heavy cardboard boxes, full of what's left of your best friend's dreams.
If you like it, you can even put in a TV, which you'll remember breaking your arm putting up every time you look at it. Mostly because it takes a lot to knock you out these days, but that fall certainly did it.
You can have lots of memories, but memories will make you bitter. (The fading smell of perfume and wine, the twitch in your left hand at the rough feel of denim.)
Ahhh, what the fuck.
Jansen shakes his head. Enough fucking stewing. It's not like he'd actually gotten hurt or anything. At least, not like he'd feel it, or really care if he did.
The world swam in front of his face for a minute, and Jansen gets up out of his chair and pulls a half-eaten meatball sandwich out of the fridge. He sticks it in the microwave for a few seconds, and because the remote's there, picks the remote up and turns the TV on in the background. It's late, so it's the evening news.
The microwave beeps. Jansen returns to the chair, food in hand. He takes a bite.
". . . found dead, a gruesome scene at the house of . . ." Jansen blinks. Who did they say? ". . . named Jason Reid, if anyone has any details of what happened at this time, please come for -"
The sandwich slips out of Jansen's hands, rolls to rest against a beat-up pair of combat boots. He gulps. He takes a deep breath. "Just . . . a few drinks. That's all." He shakes his head. "A few."
He reaches for the sandwich, picks it up, takes a bite. "Bastard . . ."
It wasn't much to some, but Jansen learned a long time ago that friendship and kindness was a rare thing. That you couldn't trust other people to take care of you. Jansen didn't trust easily. He didn't care easily, either. One late night on a bridge, and he learned his lesson about that.
He'd liked Jason. Jason was funny, cynical, and Jansen could go a few rounds without there being a fistfight at the end of the night once the drinking was done. Jason was the guy with pictures of ugly fucking rocks.
And now he was dead.
Jansen's entire body trembled. Fucking bloody goddamned hell. They always leave you, in the end. No one stays. No one ever stays. Why didn't he remember that? Why didn't he not care? Friends fail you. By being murdered, by killing themselves, by moving and not telling you where they were going.
The only thing you can trust in a world like this is your own hot blood and knowing that something beautiful will destroyed tonight and it's by your hands that it happens.
Jansen tugs his boots on and slams the door to his apartment shut, heading out into the night.
A whiskey on the rocks, and a bottle of gin. The paper and matches in his jacket pocket tap-tap-tap gently against his chest. You just had to fucking die on me. You just had to leave. Like always.
They light candles at funerals. Jansen's been to enough of them to know. A few drinks, a little exercise, and Jason will get a fucking candle, one that'll burn even God's nose, if He's up there watching.
Apartments come cheap, and they come easy to fill with furniture and belongings and heavy cardboard boxes, full of what's left of your best friend's dreams.
If you like it, you can even put in a TV, which you'll remember breaking your arm putting up every time you look at it. Mostly because it takes a lot to knock you out these days, but that fall certainly did it.
You can have lots of memories, but memories will make you bitter. (The fading smell of perfume and wine, the twitch in your left hand at the rough feel of denim.)
Ahhh, what the fuck.
Jansen shakes his head. Enough fucking stewing. It's not like he'd actually gotten hurt or anything. At least, not like he'd feel it, or really care if he did.
The world swam in front of his face for a minute, and Jansen gets up out of his chair and pulls a half-eaten meatball sandwich out of the fridge. He sticks it in the microwave for a few seconds, and because the remote's there, picks the remote up and turns the TV on in the background. It's late, so it's the evening news.
The microwave beeps. Jansen returns to the chair, food in hand. He takes a bite.
". . . found dead, a gruesome scene at the house of . . ." Jansen blinks. Who did they say? ". . . named Jason Reid, if anyone has any details of what happened at this time, please come for -"
The sandwich slips out of Jansen's hands, rolls to rest against a beat-up pair of combat boots. He gulps. He takes a deep breath. "Just . . . a few drinks. That's all." He shakes his head. "A few."
He reaches for the sandwich, picks it up, takes a bite. "Bastard . . ."
It wasn't much to some, but Jansen learned a long time ago that friendship and kindness was a rare thing. That you couldn't trust other people to take care of you. Jansen didn't trust easily. He didn't care easily, either. One late night on a bridge, and he learned his lesson about that.
He'd liked Jason. Jason was funny, cynical, and Jansen could go a few rounds without there being a fistfight at the end of the night once the drinking was done. Jason was the guy with pictures of ugly fucking rocks.
And now he was dead.
Jansen's entire body trembled. Fucking bloody goddamned hell. They always leave you, in the end. No one stays. No one ever stays. Why didn't he remember that? Why didn't he not care? Friends fail you. By being murdered, by killing themselves, by moving and not telling you where they were going.
The only thing you can trust in a world like this is your own hot blood and knowing that something beautiful will destroyed tonight and it's by your hands that it happens.
Jansen tugs his boots on and slams the door to his apartment shut, heading out into the night.
A whiskey on the rocks, and a bottle of gin. The paper and matches in his jacket pocket tap-tap-tap gently against his chest. You just had to fucking die on me. You just had to leave. Like always.
They light candles at funerals. Jansen's been to enough of them to know. A few drinks, a little exercise, and Jason will get a fucking candle, one that'll burn even God's nose, if He's up there watching.