....the yellow mini-bic clicked against the table top as he set it down and pulled the first drag off his cigarette. He looked down at it and smirked a little remembering he intentionally picked the color because it was cheery. He thought maybe he could force a little of that upon himself.
There was enough light coming into the room that he could see to mix himself a drink, walk to the bathroom, but not enough that someone could see him watching the entrance to the motel through the slightly drawn curtains. He left the window shut so no one could see smoke coming out and figure there was someone sitting, watching.
His phone didn't ring anymore. No one responded to his invites for dinner-and he received none. That had all happened pretty quickly. If people had known, he could understand it, but, mostly he rapidly learned that he had picked the wrong friends. That much he had already known, to a degree, but he never figured he had picked all of his friends wrong. The scandal of desperation was silent to those around him, but, somehow, they must have felt it. He knew it had effected his personality....for Fuck's sake, his life was ruined long before they found Ollie's body in that burned-out car. The rest was just the poison-laced icing on the cake.
His instincts were sharp enough for him to pick up that some cop had let something slip and maybe tipped-off Ollie's crew. Now 17 months later, still unharmed he should be okay, right? Why the paranoia? Because it wasn't paranoia anymore, it was full-blown PTSD and he knew it. He was jumping at, and chasing shadows. Sometimes it was all he could do to drink himself to sleep, get up in the morning, and go to work like a normal person. Most people hadn't commented on the weight gain-and he'd lost half of what he had gained. How could he explain to people that it was 'fighting weight'? That 270lbs of terrified, pissed off Mick were harder to stuff into the trunk of car than 185lbs of terrified, pissed-off Mick?
"D'ares a question for ya" he mockingly quoted from his favorite cop show as he mulled it all over.
After the naked, drunken incident with the gun and the smashed furniture he had reeled himself in a bit.
Tried not to be so paranoid.
Cut back on the booze.
It worked pretty well, but now, he was so sick of being afraid that he was starting to mock his fear-which he felt was a good step. He had moved from paranoia to fear, fear to awareness, awareness to mindfulness and occasionally, relaxation and uninterrupted sleep. That was the good part...right?
On the other hand, he had recently noticed that he no longer fell asleep and woke up imagining his arms around-who was it this week? Mary? Robin? He mostly just didn't feel, except when his life randomly came over him in an inappropriate place and he felt like he would just start sobbing...uncontrollable wracking and heaving. Maybe he longed for that more than touch, or love, or sex. Letting go that once on the day he smashed his desk felt like a weight being lifted. But it eventually came back.
Lately he had been talking himself into a more rational line of thinking in a bid to free himself and get his life back. Rationally, if something were to happen, it would have by now. The fear was self-fulfilling. Much of the weight would still be there from time to time-you can't ever just walk away from some shit. But it was time to take another step.
He tapped out his smoke in the ashtray and rose to refill his drink. He paused for a moment and decided he would try to enjoy the last vestiges of the sunset.- As a 'fuck you!' to his paranoia-so he pulled the half of the curtains by his seat all the way back letting in the rosy glow of impending twilight. He turned to go fetch some more ice for his vodka from the bucket by the sink.
The bullet was moving so fast that it didn't even shatter the thick double glazed window.Just punched a spider-web hole through it. It barely slowed down as it passed straight through the center of his heart-practically liquefying it then severed his thumb and forefinger and shattering his glass on the way out.
Technically, he was probably dead before he hit the floor, but he was aware of the sound the bullet made as it punched a grapefruit sized hole in the door opposite him.
He felt his nose break when he hit the floor and that was it.
There was enough light coming into the room that he could see to mix himself a drink, walk to the bathroom, but not enough that someone could see him watching the entrance to the motel through the slightly drawn curtains. He left the window shut so no one could see smoke coming out and figure there was someone sitting, watching.
His phone didn't ring anymore. No one responded to his invites for dinner-and he received none. That had all happened pretty quickly. If people had known, he could understand it, but, mostly he rapidly learned that he had picked the wrong friends. That much he had already known, to a degree, but he never figured he had picked all of his friends wrong. The scandal of desperation was silent to those around him, but, somehow, they must have felt it. He knew it had effected his personality....for Fuck's sake, his life was ruined long before they found Ollie's body in that burned-out car. The rest was just the poison-laced icing on the cake.
His instincts were sharp enough for him to pick up that some cop had let something slip and maybe tipped-off Ollie's crew. Now 17 months later, still unharmed he should be okay, right? Why the paranoia? Because it wasn't paranoia anymore, it was full-blown PTSD and he knew it. He was jumping at, and chasing shadows. Sometimes it was all he could do to drink himself to sleep, get up in the morning, and go to work like a normal person. Most people hadn't commented on the weight gain-and he'd lost half of what he had gained. How could he explain to people that it was 'fighting weight'? That 270lbs of terrified, pissed off Mick were harder to stuff into the trunk of car than 185lbs of terrified, pissed-off Mick?
"D'ares a question for ya" he mockingly quoted from his favorite cop show as he mulled it all over.
After the naked, drunken incident with the gun and the smashed furniture he had reeled himself in a bit.
Tried not to be so paranoid.
Cut back on the booze.
It worked pretty well, but now, he was so sick of being afraid that he was starting to mock his fear-which he felt was a good step. He had moved from paranoia to fear, fear to awareness, awareness to mindfulness and occasionally, relaxation and uninterrupted sleep. That was the good part...right?
On the other hand, he had recently noticed that he no longer fell asleep and woke up imagining his arms around-who was it this week? Mary? Robin? He mostly just didn't feel, except when his life randomly came over him in an inappropriate place and he felt like he would just start sobbing...uncontrollable wracking and heaving. Maybe he longed for that more than touch, or love, or sex. Letting go that once on the day he smashed his desk felt like a weight being lifted. But it eventually came back.
Lately he had been talking himself into a more rational line of thinking in a bid to free himself and get his life back. Rationally, if something were to happen, it would have by now. The fear was self-fulfilling. Much of the weight would still be there from time to time-you can't ever just walk away from some shit. But it was time to take another step.
He tapped out his smoke in the ashtray and rose to refill his drink. He paused for a moment and decided he would try to enjoy the last vestiges of the sunset.- As a 'fuck you!' to his paranoia-so he pulled the half of the curtains by his seat all the way back letting in the rosy glow of impending twilight. He turned to go fetch some more ice for his vodka from the bucket by the sink.
The bullet was moving so fast that it didn't even shatter the thick double glazed window.Just punched a spider-web hole through it. It barely slowed down as it passed straight through the center of his heart-practically liquefying it then severed his thumb and forefinger and shattering his glass on the way out.
Technically, he was probably dead before he hit the floor, but he was aware of the sound the bullet made as it punched a grapefruit sized hole in the door opposite him.
He felt his nose break when he hit the floor and that was it.
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