OOM: Raleigh, North Carolina
He wakes up in the cold sweat the morning that he decides it's time to leave, the fading memories of the dream that roused him from sleep still lingering in his mind as he rubs the sleep from his eyes.
Stop.
Please, for the love of god, stop.
I don't know.
I swear to god I don't know.
Please.
Stop.
Stop.
He looks down at his hands; in the reddish glow of his alarm clock he swears the skin of his fingertips is stained with dried blood. It takes a moment to shake off the haze as he climbs out of bed -- no matter that it's just past three in the morning; he won't sleep again.
The coffeepot on the counter gurgles quietly in the dark, the sole source of light in the room from the laptop sitting beside it. He's standing as he scrolls through the brief list of new emails that are in his inbox, barely registering the subjects, contents, or senders. His mind is elsewhere.
(His room upstairs in the bar, with sheets that still smell like her shampoo -- even though the Loompas have been in to clean and change them twice.)
He glances through the doorway at his darkened bedroom, and finds himself wishing she were here right now to keep him company.
He's getting attached.
You got attached to your men and they ended up dead.
Jack's buried (in this world, anyway) in Los Angeles beside his wife.
The less tying you to the world, the less likely you are to mess up.
No distinguishing marks.
He pours himself a cup of coffee and paces across the small kitchen, mug in one hand. He fingers his hipbone with his free hand, idly tracing invisible lines (catch a tiger by the tail) of a tattoo that doesn't exist on his skin.
As he sips the coffee, he's already running through possible scenarios.
By the time five o'clock rolls around, he's finished half the pot and packed everything he owns into the black rucksack he's had in the closet for the last two weeks. Most of his things are still in storage or at Milliways (it was easier to keep them at the bar, even with the risk of being locked out and away from his personal effects) and the furniture he could care less about.
He unplugs the coffee pot on the way out; slips an envelope under the door of the landlord's office, apologizing for his hasty exit and asking him to clean out the fridge, not to worry about the deposit and there's several hundred additional to make up for the hassle of having to sell the furniture.
A few hours after the sun rises, he's shaking hands with a friend of his at the curb of Raleigh-Durham International, handing over the keys to his Wrangler.
"You keep it in one piece," he says; tone joking while still serious.
(But deep down they both know that he'll never drive the Jeep again.)
"It'll be waiting for you, Benton."
(Just like the rest of us.)
The sliding glass doors usher him into the chaos of an early morning flight schedule, leaving behind the world outside. Carl glances up at the departures board, adjusting the straps on his pack as he scans the destinations.
(He's scanning the surroundings of the terminal too, out of habit.)
A faint smile quirks one corner of his mouth. It's ironic, but it's perfect at the same time. By the time he reaches the Delta ticket counter, he can already think of what she's going to say when he next wanders into the bar.
"You'd better have brought me more than a postcard."
"I'd like a ticket to Cancun, please."
It's as good a place to start as any.
Stop.
Please, for the love of god, stop.
I don't know.
I swear to god I don't know.
Please.
Stop.
Stop.
He looks down at his hands; in the reddish glow of his alarm clock he swears the skin of his fingertips is stained with dried blood. It takes a moment to shake off the haze as he climbs out of bed -- no matter that it's just past three in the morning; he won't sleep again.
The coffeepot on the counter gurgles quietly in the dark, the sole source of light in the room from the laptop sitting beside it. He's standing as he scrolls through the brief list of new emails that are in his inbox, barely registering the subjects, contents, or senders. His mind is elsewhere.
(His room upstairs in the bar, with sheets that still smell like her shampoo -- even though the Loompas have been in to clean and change them twice.)
He glances through the doorway at his darkened bedroom, and finds himself wishing she were here right now to keep him company.
He's getting attached.
You got attached to your men and they ended up dead.
Jack's buried (in this world, anyway) in Los Angeles beside his wife.
The less tying you to the world, the less likely you are to mess up.
No distinguishing marks.
He pours himself a cup of coffee and paces across the small kitchen, mug in one hand. He fingers his hipbone with his free hand, idly tracing invisible lines (catch a tiger by the tail) of a tattoo that doesn't exist on his skin.
As he sips the coffee, he's already running through possible scenarios.
By the time five o'clock rolls around, he's finished half the pot and packed everything he owns into the black rucksack he's had in the closet for the last two weeks. Most of his things are still in storage or at Milliways (it was easier to keep them at the bar, even with the risk of being locked out and away from his personal effects) and the furniture he could care less about.
He unplugs the coffee pot on the way out; slips an envelope under the door of the landlord's office, apologizing for his hasty exit and asking him to clean out the fridge, not to worry about the deposit and there's several hundred additional to make up for the hassle of having to sell the furniture.
A few hours after the sun rises, he's shaking hands with a friend of his at the curb of Raleigh-Durham International, handing over the keys to his Wrangler.
"You keep it in one piece," he says; tone joking while still serious.
(But deep down they both know that he'll never drive the Jeep again.)
"It'll be waiting for you, Benton."
(Just like the rest of us.)
The sliding glass doors usher him into the chaos of an early morning flight schedule, leaving behind the world outside. Carl glances up at the departures board, adjusting the straps on his pack as he scans the destinations.
(He's scanning the surroundings of the terminal too, out of habit.)
A faint smile quirks one corner of his mouth. It's ironic, but it's perfect at the same time. By the time he reaches the Delta ticket counter, he can already think of what she's going to say when he next wanders into the bar.
"You'd better have brought me more than a postcard."
"I'd like a ticket to Cancun, please."
It's as good a place to start as any.