if you ever doubt that your ao3 comments matter or mean something: i have been struggling with my writing for 6 months straight, crying myself to sleep afraid that i will never be able to write again, that the thing i love most in the world has left me, that my writing is just gone
this morning i got this comment:
and after i stopped blubbering over it, i picked up my writing notebook, and re-read all my fic research, and opened up my document again for the first time in weeks without being afraid of it
you have no idea how much writers treasure every single comment we get. you have no idea how big an impact you can have. sometimes, just sometimes, your one "insignificant" comment changes everything
evil reverse Blake Sanders would just be a guy who wears colorful clothes, hates jewelery and eyeliner, wears the glasses he sorely needs to be wearing and knows how to set boundaries lol
026 unintentionally has adopted the 3 bad habits of the 3 named instructors in Arc 0: He has Hayes' hateful Violence, Greene's negligence, and Ruiz's substance abuse
Never dumb down your story to make it palatable. Give us subtext, things the characters dont say but fully mean, flowery metaphors and prose and let the reader peice its true meaning together
Modern media is overridden with telling us flat out instead of letting us interpret things
Write the story the way you want and the right people will find it
If you like it, Pease comment! It means a lot to me!
Tws: Grief, Religious Discussion
May 16th, 2002; Pine Brooks, Michigan; Sunset
Pine Brooks was a small village about an hour to the north of the nearest highway, and twenty minutes out from the nearest real Walmart in Pendletown. It was primarily farmland, and right in the center of the village there was a crossroads with a triangle of buildings. Those buildings were: a small four-room church with no wifi, a post-office that doubled as a gas station, and a town hall that was mostly used for bible studies.
On this particular Friday evening, however, four out of four offshoots of that crossroad were blocked off by a collection of old traffic barriers with flaking paint and wobbly legs. They’d been wrapped in white fairy lights that were connected back to an outlet inside the church by a long yellow extension cord, into which four other extension cords were plugged.
In front of the church, six white folding tables had been set up in a long line parallel to the parking lot. Scattered across their surfaces were dozens of different dishes including desserts, entreés, and various other food items. Across the parking lot, about sixteen more tables had been set up in eight rows of two under an assortment of canopy tents contributed by the community.
A little ways down the road, Evelyn Sparrow and two of her younger brothers passed the tiny graveyard; it was always quiet there, but it felt more forlorn now than scary: with all the overgrown flowers and vines wrapping around the stones. Both of her hands were occupied, one by the rougher olive-skinned hand of Michael Sparrow, and the other in the tiny stubby hand of Cole.
Just beyond the branches of a doubled-over weeping willow, the bike they were searching for leaned against the trunk. The bright glittering red stood out amongst the green leaves like the fresh strawberries Eve spent every summer at the Dakota's harvesting for the local farmer’s market in the fall. She'd always thought that hand-picked berries tasted sweeter than the shiny ones that came off of store shelves in plastic containers.
The fading gradient light of sunset had already begun to wind in around them as Eve let Michael use her phone to dig out the boys’ favorite frisbee. It was the white one with the rounded edges, roughly the size of a dinner plate. It belonged to their father. Once he had the frisbee in his hands, Michael held it aloft triumphantly like a trophy, his face covered in grey shadow from the stark brilliance of the flashlight. “Aha! YES!”
A small smile crept across Eve's face as Cole let go of her hand and ran over to hug his big brother. Michael leaned against Cole gently, resting one arm on his head and smooshing the four-year-old's blond curls under his elbow.
Cole wrestled to throw Michael off, resulting in laughter from the adopted middle child, and a playfight beneath the willow which Eve did nothing to stop. They would have looked almost identical, if not for Michael's olive skin and rusty black hair in contrast with Cole's pale tan and sandy blond. Somehow though, they had the same lopsided smile, and the same excited sparkle in their eyes. That, she was grateful for, especially in light of recent events.
However, the sudden tone of a lower voice brought her thoughts to an abrupt end: “Uh… Hi, are you Eve?”
She turned, rather startled by the interruption. The girl behind her was about her age, with a round face, a pointed nose, and nervous expression. Her skin tone was similar to Michael’s, but the slimmer, downturned eyes and broader nose told Eve they were likely a different ethnicity.
“Yes, I am. Is someone looking for me?”
“I am actually… Sort of? Lucian told me you might be able to help me.” She fidgeted with her long, straight hair, twirling it around her fingers, and hiding a portion of her face behind it like a privacy curtain in a hospital, “Unless now is a bad time?”
Eve glanced over her shoulder at her brothers, “Not at all! I just need one second, if that’s alright?”
The girl nodded, stepping back.
“Michael?”
A pause greeted her, then: “Yeah? What?”
“Do you think you and Cole can get back to the party alone?”
He crossed his arms, almost offended that she’d asked. “Clearly! Why?”
“I need to have a conversation; if I’m late and Mom asks, tell her I’ll try to be home by 10.”
“Will do. Yes ma’am!” Michael gave her a mock salute, and grabbed Cole’s hand as Eve turned back to her new acquaintance.
She offered her a handshake, “Done! Nice to meet you! I don’t think I got your name?”
“Uhm… June. June Dakota. You worked with my…” she paused, eyes diverting to the ground as the words seemed to swell in her mouth and she fell silent.
“Your brother?”
June shrank a little.
“I’m sorry for your loss; he was a good kid. Do you… maybe want a hug?”
The nod was small, but visible. Eve did just as she said she would, wrapping her arms around June without another word. For a moment, they stood just like that, beneath the darkening golden sky, letting the silence wrap around them until Eve pulled back. “So, can I ask why Lucian prescribed me to you?”
“It’s… about that. About- about him. Processing grief and all. He said you lost someone a few years ago?”
Eve’s lips twitched downward ever so slightly, and she nodded. “I did. We all did, really. You knew him, I think. Aaron Sparrow?”
"Oh… I did.” June pushed her hair out of her face, “He was… very kind to me the one time I met him. I'm sorry. It must be hard."
Eve made no effort to hide the small bittersweet smile. "Thank you. And yeah, sometimes it is, but we manage.”
Another moment of silence accented the desolate street, and June cast her eyes to the sky and the swirling cotton clouds that decorated its silky blue depths. Inaudible golden flames licked at the underside of the billowy white fluff, refracting back to the ground and casting the old paved road in dappled shadow. She took a small step, and Eve moved ahead in response, noting the familiar urge to burn off steam with physical action: and so, wordlessly, they began a short walk away from the sounds of the party in the distance.
"Does it ever get any better?"
June asked, her voice stumbling awkwardly after her.
“...Yes, but not for a while. I know how it feels though, or at least how it felt to me. It's sort of like there's a gaping hole in your life that can never be filled in, a spot of ice that makes everything feel cold.”
“‘But it doesn't,’ that's what you're going to say, isn't it?”
Eve opened her mouth, then closed it again, and instead huffed a soft sigh into the brisk summer air, “No. No, I'm not.”
That got June to look her in the eyes. “I'm not because you've clearly heard it before, and it doesn't help much when the loss is so… raw.”
“It can't be fixed.” June's face screwed up into a strange implacable expression, “I don't want to hear that I'll ‘get over it’. I don't want to… get over him. He's my brother! You don't just get over losing someone who loved you like that. No one else is going to be like him. I don't want to lose him again. How can you just… be expected to put a rug over it and call it fine? No one else can make me laugh like that, can make me feel like that… exasperated but affectionate at the same time. It's not all going to be perfectly okay, it's not fine!” Her breathing stuttered for a moment, and Eve slowed her pace to match.
"I turn a corner, and I expect him to be there, laughing at me. He's still my phone lock screen, but now half of his things are in boxes, and everyone's acting like it's an average weekend. His bed isn't made, the same way it wasn't when he told me he was going out. His headphones are still in his room, his shoes are still next to mine, and there's an extra empty chair at the table… He was more than just a space in my life, he's in every part of it, and I love him!” She paused to release a strangled sob before, bitterly, she amended: “Loved him.”
Eve felt her eyes widen in a form of concern before she could stop it, “I… well, that's alright. I would be more worried if you didn't. I'm not going to give you some motivational speech or anything—about moving on, I mean. It... doesn't really work that way. The emptiness doesn't really get less empty; the feeling doesn't go away.”
As Eve paused to allow for a response; they reached an old worn-down stop sign at the end of the road, and both paused. Again, June avoided eye contact, peering out blankly into the vacant 55-mile-an-hour road a few yards beyond them, no doubt wondering if she could spot the place where her brother had died from this spot. Eve knew because she was doing the same. She always did when she came out here, but she never managed to peer over the horizon at the recently-repainted yellow line that scraps of a fender and a crumpled corpse had been scattered across less than three years ago. Her mother hadn’t let her get out of the car then, but she remembered the revolving police lights bathing the world in strawberry red and a rich blue the color of ocean water. She remembered a hospital stretcher just out of her view, and watching the dazed semi-truck driver fumble to pull his licenses out of the pocket of his cargo pants.
“It doesn’t just go away,” she repeated, “There’s… still an empty chair, empty shoes, and the headphones get thrown out, but there's still a space on your table for them. And nothing... can really change the fact that they're gone. Eventually, though, it starts to feel a little different. The memories change color a little bit, kind of like a cheap mood ring you get from the dollar store. It's hollow, and it aches to the touch, but the pressure holds up the bricks of a new foundation. He's not *here* per se, but that's... the nice thing about believing what we believe. He's not gone. You just can't see him right now. Think of it like an extra-long vacation. You will see him again, eventually. I know that doesn't really make the absence hurt less, but it does get easier: a little brighter around the edges of the hole. But his shoes can go to someone in need, and he's still in every warm tug of a blanket around your shoulders. God has him now, but that doesn't mean you love him or miss him any less. That hollowness is a true sign that he was loved more than anything in the world.”
A small sniffle replied, “I suppose.”
“There's not much more I can say that a hug can't, but I’m here nonetheless,” Eve conceded with a shrug and a nod of understanding.
This time, June was the one who initiated conversation: “Look, I’m sorry. I know all of you want me to be happy; I want to be, and I’m sorry that I can’t… I shouldn’t be here.”
“No, it’s alright. Seriously. Lucian asked you to come here, and I’m happy to listen. It isn’t simple, I just want you to remember what I said, even if it doesn’t help right now.”
Her miserable nod was all Eve needed.
“Why don’t we go back and get some food. We can find some people to pray for you later. Otherwise, there are a few quieter corners if you need, and I’ll give you my number. If it’s not doing anything for you, please go home and rest.”
“...Thank you.”
“Of course!”
The conversation continued idly as they wandered back down the long road. “Can I ask… how many siblings you have?” June’s step had gained a little more lenity in the recent minutes—due to the change in subject Eve assumed.
“Five in total, three adopted.”
“I thought it was two?”
“Oh, no, but that makes sense. Ma only finished the paperwork for Leah’s about a year ago. She doesn’t talk about the family as much.”
June nodded slowly, “Okay, gotcha. Are you excited to be back in town for the summer?”
“Oh absolutely, the business administration major is fun, but man, is it exhausting! Speaking of which, what’s yours?”
“Hm? Oh, uh… just accounting, it’s all simple math really.”
“Simple? You’re smarter than me then! I could never.”
The tiniest flicker of a smile tugged upward at June’s lips, “It’s not that hard.”
“Now you’re just making fun of me!” Eve made sure her smile communicated the joking tone.
“Am not!” June paused for a moment, the little smile dissolving for a moment, “Eve?”
“Yes?”
“Did you… make any more friends where you’re going to college?”
“Yeah! I met my current best friend there! When I was full-time, she was one of my roommates. Her name is Scarlet. I think you’d like her!”
“I’d love to meet her… if I could, of course.”
“Absolutely! I’ll have to introduce you sometime.”
A small pause followed, “Do you think it’s possible that you’ll meet someone who will change everything? Would you be happy with that change?” June glanced back at her, a bit of genuine intrigue dancing through her eyes as they passed the willow tree, “Sorry if that’s a weird question, I think about it a lot, like… wondering about the man I’m going to marry, or even a new friend, or if the thing I just brushed off was the beginning of a butterfly effect?”
Eve paused, identifying the fairy-light-wrapped traffic block up the street, “Yeah, I think about it sometimes. I don’t think I’d really care who it is. Someone nice, someone a bit mean, someone loud, or quiet, someone with a few missing pieces even. If God puts a friend in my life I’d like to think I’d be open to keeping her. Or him, I don’t know!”
“Really? I’m not sure I could handle a lot more than some of the people in town. But you don’t care? At all? You really have no standards? Zero?”
“Well, okay, maybe not none, I mean, I wouldn’t want anyone who would hurt my family staying in my house…”
“So no serial killers then?” June smirked.
“I would prefer not, actually. And I would also not prefer to be mugged, or shot, or stabbed, or find a drug addict in my basement.”
“Oh really? I thought it'd be fun!” June smiled.
“Well, it probably wouldn’t be too hard to find someone. But I, for one, will keep praying that there aren’t any monsters hiding inside my closet.”
That gained an honest laugh from June, “I suppose you can never be too careful.”
“What? You don’t want to get murdered?”
“Like you said, preferably not. But… you were right earlier. I should be getting home. I… Thank you again.” She pulled her hair out of her face, and stuck out her hand for Eve to shake, “It was nice to meet you.”
“You’re welcome, and of course! It was nice to meet you too!” June released her hand, and Eve turned back to find her brothers, spotting them outside the church, throwing the frisbee,
“Oh, and Eve? Only one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Do your best not to go looking for serial killers.”
Eve scoffed a laugh, "I'll stay away from the big city, then, but… no guarantees.”
If you like it, Pease comment! It means a lot to me!
Tws: Harsh Language, Drugs, Semigraphic description of Sex (No description of bodily functions), alcohol, Addiction, Trauma
Ethynoé, Michigan; May 17th, 2002: 12:35am
026 let his shaking fingers trail along the metal shelf for a moment. He glanced over his shoulder through the grimy windows, watching the purple neon flash at him from the gasoline-tainted rain puddles congregating in a nearby pothole. He turned away and limped off down the aisle to find white rice. He could wait.
If he’d been shopping at a larger grocery store, he was pretty sure he would never have bought the same kind of anything twice, but this was a corner store. They only sold two brands, though two was really all he needed.
He only pulled one bag off the shelf. He had the money for several, but he liked the old lady behind the counter enough that he didn’t mind coming back once a week. She always had the night shift on Fridays, and she somehow managed to make the little Mini-mart on the corner of 103rd Street just a bit brighter.
Right now, however, the only thing making anything brighter were those goddamn LEDs. All he could think about was Eilene, and the buzzing just made the headache worse. He rubbed his jaw where she’d kicked him, several of his teeth having been chipped because of her. In the past hour, the sore spot had rapidly begun to bloom into a deep wine-red bruise that pulsed with an intense pins-and-needles sensation. His least favorite part of the whole ordeal was that she’d kicked him right where the stubble connected to his hair. He picked a few bags of freeze-dried strawberries off the top shelf as he contemplated all the annoying angles of razor safety.
026 was still feeling sorry for himself when he dropped the food on the counter, and the little old woman smiled up at him from the little stool she was perched on. He managed a small smile in response. “Hey Linda.”
The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes turned out a little. “It’s nice to see you, Kay! Where were you last week?”
“Nowhere special, just got a little busy with some work bullshit, you know how it goes.”
“Ah, but I do have a question.”
“Yes?” The corner of his lip twitched upward. She always asked.
“Do you ever eat anything else?”
“Of course I do, you just have the cheapest rice!”
“Alright, just make sure you’re telling the truth. So, what about this?” She tapped the side of her jaw lightly.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, “the clumsiness doesn’t go away just because I’m busy.”
“And yet that doesn’t keep me from being worried. Put some ice on that, you hear me?”
A soft smile filtered over his lips despite the fact his mind was elsewhere, “Yes ma’am.”
“Be careful too, I’ve heard the kids are starting to get rowdy.”
“Really?” He took the plastic bag off the counter and handed her his card, “Isn’t it too early?”
“Apparently not.”
He shrugged, “Huh. Keep yourself safe; I don’t want to have to find a new corner store.” Despite the fact it had been a joke, he regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Her smile was small, and so he decided that was his cue to leave. On the way out, he wished her a good night, refusing to look over his shoulder.
Corner stores and gas stations were always the first places to get robbed when the summer started; the high-schoolers and college kids liked to steal cigarettes to celebrate not failing another year. He hoped Linda wasn’t one of the cashiers to get unlucky when some rich fuck’s kid decided it was a good time to steal his father’s gun and show it off to his friends.
Eilene had done the bare minimum to get him a gun license so he wouldn’t be arrested in broad daylight just for possessing an illegal firearm. Of course she had. She always obeyed the law to the letter; until, of course, it inconvenienced her—said it made her harder to catch.
Though, she hadn’t been found out yet, so he supposed he couldn’t fault her strategy. Al-Capone had been caught for tax evasion.
026 walked all the way back to the parking garage in the dark and threw the food in the back before he returned to the street to call a taxi. He trusted no one else to drive him anywhere, especially not if he wanted to make the most of the limited night hours. The time segmenting made things fun to think about while waiting for Eilene to get over herself enough so he could enjoy his night.
He did consider the possibility that he shouldn’t go out and force the night to feel like less of a shitshow. Of course, he discarded it immediately after because he refused to admit, drugs or not: it'd turn out that way the next morning, whatever he did. The options were a dreary walk home... or a high night full of blurry lights, loud music, pure ignorant bliss, and waking up God knows where with a pounding headache. It was a clear choice and a horrible decision, really. 026 made that same choice every week.
A small voice in the back of his head told him he knew better. The words ‘horrible decision’ repeated, but it was a wonderful horrible decision. If he was really honest with himself, following Eilene’s orders was also a terrible choice. At least this one made him feel better about the whole ordeal. He had friends here, nevermind they were all transactional. He liked them better that way.
1am to 5am was the best time of night. It had a spinning sky and a glittering ocean of beautiful neon lights. He paid them good money to concentrate that feeling in the dozen types of poisons vying for control of his veins. They liked him, and he liked them; both parties were enemies of the law, so why shouldn’t they be friends?
026 never tipped the taxi driver, and they never spoke to him either.
Uncontrollable laughter echoed in the wistful freedom of insanity. It was fun to forget why he was alive. The inside of the building was darker than the streets, as always, but the neon chaos welcomed him in like a real friend anyway. He thought he remembered one of their names was Daniel.
The feeling was a brilliant whirlwind of perfection and pleasure that turned into a pool of honey in his head, drowning him in sluggish thoughts and a sweet taste he couldn't get out of his mouth. Someone took him by the arm and he found his face inches away from that of a stranger. She wanted his money, and the drugs.
For what she offered, he was willing to share.
There was a craving, like torture, for something that would never be enough. A hollow trench was fitted with its exact puzzle piece, only now: missing another. The sensation would never be replicated, a masterpiece painting itself in warm competition against his body. The spiraling movement disoriented him in the euphoria of it all. The moment drowned in sickening indulgence: temporary satiation, like a broken spigot spilling starlight all over the floor. But Fuck, it felt good.
It was like the first bite of food after a day of nothing at all, satisfaction until it crumbled apart, and all that was possible would be chasing that feeling again. Missing the sweetness became a necessity of life: missing what it felt like to have an empty space filled, the comfort of a temporary perfect fit, and the taste of desperation.
Her legs weaved between his like the fibers of a wicker basket on a strawberry farm. She was sweet bursts of flavor, but his mouth came away dry, and the fluttering in his chest demanded a solution. She was skilled with her hands, and so he let her play games with his body. The night closed in, ruthlessly cold, and pulled him deeper into the gentle enveloping arms of glittering ecstacy. A charged well of swirling water waited to break through.
He broke away in a dizzy fervor, rubbing strings from his lips with the side of his thumb. The needles encircled his neck and pulled him away into a reality no gentler than sandpaper-coated plate armor. The perfect, brilliant feeling of stimulation winding up and around every piece, pulling him back together. It remained a cushion for his head when a bare hand pinned him back against it. Tightly wound muscles became a pillar of mercy in the unsteady dark.
Eyes the color of a clear sky peered into his, carving tunnels into his soul like burrowing insects. She offered him something stronger, and he accepted it, dancing with the feeling as he let his heart fight itself sick and the lights mesmerize him in a kaleidoscope of insubstantial promises.
026 had a natural advantage to knife games with three metal fingers, but even he knew russian roulette was a game of dead men. He imagined staring down the barrel of a gun, incapacitated as he was reminded what an innocent lamb must have seen on his last day of life. The pieces on the scattered chess board consisted of pills, empty shot glasses, and white powder that he always thought looked like baking flour.
He couldn't interpret the ringing in his ears. Every part of his body strained in a dance with his own addiction. Crowds thickened; the taste combined with a peppery smooth texture of fruit and sugar.
Returning to air, he scrabbled for a breath from the waters, running from the sticky sweet syrup of hands and irrefusable offers to forget everything in a blink. He trembled on his hands and knees, sounds muddled by the doors as he struggled to breathe on the linoleum tile.
He felt it could maybe last forever, gasping in the reprieve; there was too much.
All in an instant, his delusions splintered in a visceral, shattering sting. Suddenly, he was in a different room.
He wanted to cry, pressed against the wall. His entire body hurt, and he wanted to die.
I feel sick.
Panic.
My chest hurts.
Panic.
What's happening?
Panic.
A hand grabbed his, and a moment later his vision was steel knuckles and blood.
The downtown lanterns flickered, a few tattered souls fighting desperately over scraps like seagulls over a stray wrapper. A girl ran for cover in her car.
He was back in the ocean, tossed by waves. Another round of it came, sinking into his head—a bite of something he didn't want to open his mouth for.
He stumbled from a building in the howling rain, hands against his collarbone only to pitch forward and be abandoned in the dark. Streets were covered slowly in glistening ripples that shed in droves toward the pattering storm drains. It was as if the ocean itself poured from a tear in the sky, thundering down in sheets, and driving down the side of brick walls like the dam of heaven had broken.
There was water seeping down the back of his shirt. Why were the puddles blurry? Water froze deep into his bones with the drowning frenzy of its search for a landing ground. Spinning neon lights and nausea spilled through his organs like the streaming water had finally found its hold, slithering down his throat.
An overflowing sensation pushed pressure in his throat and the back of his nose, with every breath triggering his gag reflex. Madness. He caught a glimpse of a spark: light that put any neon sign or hypnotic sparkle to shame, a furious scream.
There was pressure. So much pressure, threatening to burst out from his skin like an imploding star or a strange tumor longing for the freedom of oxygen.
The night faded into the neon sky, drowning the deepest of dreams and the wheezing breaths of a quiet victim-turned-weapon, dragging his organs down the streets like visceral puppet strings of gore.
026 didn't remember anything after he left. He didn't remember the rain, or vomiting on the sidewalk, and he especially didn't remember collapsing in the back of the taxi, or the skeptical look the young driver gave him as he gave up trying to find the seatbelt.
When the taxi stopped, 026 fumbled around on the seat beside him for a hold, his organs fighting one another in a dizzy fury that tossed his stomach like a pancake. The fuzzy colors bobbing in the corner of his vision erased any regret from his mind.
He could do it. Of course he could. Failure wasn’t allowed.
He grabbed for the handle and immediately lost his balance.
The Taxi driver sighed heavily, turning around to face him, “Will you get the fuck out of my car?”
Asshole.
026’s face contorted in annoyance as he flipped him off.
He barely managed to stumble halfway up the stairs to the fifth floor before he was sick. Pitch black whistling closed around him in the stairwell as he slumped against the graffiti-coated wall, hugging the railing to avoid the yawning death of the steep stairs behind and below him.
Eventually, 026 broke through the door with a frustrated grunt as he finally remembered to use the key. His knees hit the carpet with a shock of pain. Sitting there in the unbearable silence, he compulsively wondered if Eilene would be ashamed of him.
He forced himself further upward. It felt as if a lifetime had already passed him by; he was living the remnants of that life: bland, and motionless, as if frozen. It was an existence of dried-up bones and lost potential. A life shining on the horizon that taunted him with the potential for what it never got the chance to be.
Obnoxious metal music pounded up the hallway as 026 reached the door. His apartment was just as stale as always, filthy, and stained in old beige paint. Ice crusted every corner of the place, like the lingering breath of winter crawling across the walls and into his veins. Cold. Frozen. Just like freeze-dried strawberries, turning his life into nothing more than a husk of the energy it had once had.
026 flopped down onto his mattress, and he winced as the music volume tripled, accompanied by the stench of weed. Tension surged through his muscles in an instant of fight or flight.
In the dark, there was a scuffle between his feet and the floor, then his fist drove into the wall at full force, plaster gave way with a crack, and his lungs strained to produce the strangled scream that followed.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP, WOULD YOU?”
He was ignored, so he pounded on the wall until they complied.
He liked his neighbors alright, until they pulled shit like this. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on the circumstances, the landlord of this particular building was always absent until rent was due. Tonight, it was unfortunate.
The walls were thin enough that he still heard the music, so he buried his head under his pillow, cursing them out until he fell asleep at nearly 5:30 in the morning.
He remembered nothing when he woke up ten minutes past 2pm.
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