JUST LEAVE IT ALONE

It’s been a long night.

He’d been out for hours. Haunting the seediest of Seoul’s backstreets, cutting deals with junkies and murderers and thieves. Just another night, for him. He’s used to it. He’s sick of it. He’d called it quits before he should have, really, but the threat of a disappointed boss has long since lost its sway over him.

Fuck that guy.

The rest of his supply is hidden away, in the bedside drawer that held his own stash, once upon a time. And with it, the stolen army-issued Daewoo 9mm that’s been fired exactly once. And Sungjoon – Sungjoon who would like nothing more than to never have to think of either of these things again – he’s restless, smoking his way through a pack of Reds in front of a shitty TV set.

For hours, the only sound in the apartment has been a voice droning on in accented English. Bear Grylls, Sungjoon’s go-to binge-watching choice. The subtitles are off (they make him read, they make him think) so he only understands most of it – enough that he’s steadily growing his reserve of survival tips, enough that he can lose himself in fantasies of being self-sufficient and utterly alone out in the vast wilderness. He’s so detached from the dreary apartment around him that his phone vibrating comes as a genuine shock. Who would even text him these days? The possibilities are a little unnerving, so when he snatches it up and sees the sender, he sinks back into the cushions with a sigh of relief.

[ MSG: 병신 ] if that ain’t a fucking mood [ MSG: 병신 ] i’ve needed one for like 5 years

And god, it’s true. The longer he stays trapped in this hopeless cycle (restless sleep and waking only to move a product he craves so badly it chokes the life right out of him) the more intolerable it gets. And there’s no way out, and he knows this, but the closer he gets to the end of his rope the more inclined he is to make one.

The next text is just about the last thing he would’ve expected, but it doesn’t irk him as much as it probably should. Selin is obnoxious, but sometimes – sometimes it seems like the kid might actually care.

[ MSG: 병신 ] nah… i have no idea how i’d even reach her. she could still be in istanbul, she could’ve gone home, she could be fucking anywhere [ MSG: 병신 ] my grandma might know…

    The walk is a relatively short one this time, all things considered. Sometimes he has to cross the entire city to get back to his crappy little abode. This one is only ten blocks. He could’ve passed that dead fuck on the street and he’d never have even noticed.

    Why does that seem to bother him?

    He blows out a large cloud of smoke and frowns, unlocking the front door of his building. There’s a sign on the wall next to the door that he doesn’t often look at - No Smoking. He takes another drag as the door shuts behind him, and starts the loud ascent to his floor. There are only a few people left in the building, just enough to keep it alive, and he’s sure that they all absolutely hate him. None of them will confront him, though. The last neighbor that showed up on his doorstep left in a cold sweat and he hasn’t been bothered since.

    His phone goes off as he pulls his keys out and it looks like he has a few new messages. Sungjoon is definitely up - if he’s not working, he’s probably alone at home, maybe drinking. That one definitely sounds like a good idea.

    [ MSG: bsj ] call up granny and fuckin ask her, why dont ya     [ MSG: bsj ] get her address

    His mind is working now as he enters his apartment, kicks the door shut behind him and chucks his jacket over the back of his kitchen chair. Locks click back into place and he pulls his gun out of his waistband, pulls out the clip, sets it heavy on the table.

    Then he goes for the cabinet with the booze. All the while, he’s planning. Well, not planning, per se, but an idea is forming. He pours himself a glass and then sits his ass on the living room couch. The remote was here somewhere yesterday, he’s sure of it, but he’s having trouble finding it. Whiskey almost ends up in his lap when it is found - between the cushions.

    He taps the end of his cigarette into the ashtray on his sad excuse for a coffee table (a crate he picked up behind the local 7-Eleven) and pushes the power button, then takes a swig.

    And his apartment is filled with the haunting score of a rather bland horror movie. He’s seen this one once before.

‘ that one will bruise. ’ » @illota​

        –{ ° } usually he doesn’t do this sort of thing. but you know when you see someone’s face, and that hot bout of anger just wells up in your stomach? when they breathe out, and that little cloud into the cold air reminds you of the foul poison of pollution? like that’s all they’ll ever be to you, is a reminder of some stupid, petty shit they did too long ago but you can’t forget about it? and he has pretty good restraint too, he’s keen to just keep walking past, fists shoved a little deeper into his jacket pockets. he tries to distract himself with his friend talking, with the way the streetlights illuminate the wet pavement in front of him, the drag of the soles of his shoes over the concrete. he’s doing well, gritting his teeth to keep his sudden frustration down.

   that is, until he glances right as they pass, at the guy leaning back all smug against the brick of a building, the twitch of his lips into a smirk reminding Taemin of the way he wants to punch it right off of his face. the conversation with his friend is cut off as he strides the few feet over, no hesitation visible in the way he moves, one hand pressing roughly to the boy’s neck, holding him against the wall as the other hand’s knuckles come into contact with the curve of his jaw.

   he’s got the upper hand for a few seconds, fingers digging in and turning white from the pressure around his neck, happy with the choked sound he gets in response. too soon though, someone’s pulling him back, tugging on his jacket and forcing his grip to release. his tunnel vision had kept him blind from the boy’s two other friends, neither looking worthy enough to focus on but able to keep him off long enough so his main target can reverse the roles. there’s a sharp pain to the arch of his eyebrow and he’s hit, eyes shutting though he reaches out to grab at whatever he can, fingers just brushing the man’s jaw, itching to get it back into his grasp.

   his hands are suddenly empty, arms being pulled behind him, a force stronger than the two henchmen at the opposing man’s sides pulling him back, making him stumble over his own sneakers. he growls and makes to turn, movement dying immediately as he realizes it’s his friend. everyone’s backing off, but shoulders are tense and that annoying piece of shit across from them is scoffing, but the voice he hears is more familiar, from behind him.

   “ that one will bruise . ”

   it’s sort of a low chuckle in his ear, making his eyes roll and he flashes one last snarl at that man he’s lunged at before giving up, letting SeLin pull him back enough before they all realize it’s pointless, and it’s over. it takes a few steps and Taemin glancing over his shoulder before he responds, lifting a hand to feel over the spot above his eye.

   “ just give me another fucking cigarette . ”

    He’s having a conversation, which isn’t altogether abnormal - he’s a social person, likes to talk. About anything, everything, but usually it’s about how much work sucks. His friends are good for complaining to because half of them have the same outlook and the other half work with him. He could go on for days about how bleak this shit is.

    Right now, though, it’s feeling a little one-sided. His companion is more like an acquaintance; someone he knows through the grapevine who does similar work. He’s pleasant enough, for the most part. But he’s stopped listening entirely and by the time SeLin notices, it’s what you would call “too late.”

    Taemin is, instead of listening to the scintillating words spewing out of his mouth, wailing on a guy so hard that SeLin feels his own jaw dislocating. God, what a rush. He’s not even going to stop it until the guy’s friends jump in. Now it’s his turn. After all, three on one is pretty unfair.

    They’re still on a main road, though. It takes him a second to, for once in his life, weigh his options. The commotion is already drawing a crowd, and if they keep going, someone’s gonna call PD. That’s just what normal people do. He and Taemin aren’t normal people. They cannot be questioned by police. That would be very, very bad. He’s already been brought in for questioning once, and he’s not keen to do it again. Ksung would have his head.

    “Fuck’s sake ya fuckin’ idiots!” He’s talking about everyone, not just their new buddies. “Ain’t got time for this shit.”

    So now he’s in it, but not like usual. He catches a fist awkwardly with his shoulder and it fucking stings, but he just body-checks the guy out of his way. Then he’s got hands hooked onto Taemin’s elbows. When he drags his friend out of reach, the guys back off a little bit. It’s then that he gets a good look at Taemin’s eye.

    He lets out a whistle and comments on it - he’s definitely seen worse, and it probably would’ve been worse had he let them keep going. His companion isn’t having it, though. Keeps struggling to get loose until finally he relaxes a fraction and huffs, giving in.

    SeLin lets him go, half tempted to give him a good smack to the back of the head for being so fucking stupid. They need to bounce, however, so he forgoes it to start walking, pushing through a couple of people that had gathered around. There’s a disgruntled “Just give me another fucking cigarette,” and he starts fishing around in his pockets.

    “The fuck you tryin’a get arrested for, dumbass?” He finds a pack of menthol blacks that he’d been given a while back, knocks one out and sticks it in his mouth, then holds it out to Taemin. 

    So fuckin’ cold…

    He can’t feel his fingers as he holds a black cigarette to his lips, strikes at his lighter one, two, three times. When it catches, he inhales. Nicotine floods his system and he almost feels good... for a second.

    It’s later than he’d like, but it wasn’t like he was going to sleep much anyway. Must be a little after three in the morning. A quick glance at the glowing screen of his phone (a newer purchase: his old flip finally died and it wasn’t like he didn’t have the money to spare) confirms the suspicion. 3:16. He’s supposed to be done by 3:45, so he might be cutting it close, but it’s no skin off his back. The usual team works around him when they have to.

    The message icon catches his eye and on a whim, he taps. He doesn’t text much anymore; there’s not a lot of people that want to bother with him. He does have one familiar name saved, though. And the owner is probably still up, despite the hour.

    [ MSG: bsj ] need a fuckin vacation

    It’s quick - he doesn’t waste any more than a few seconds on it before stowing the whole thing away. Another drag, and then he grinds the end of the cigarette into the brick wall next to him. Just enough to get rid of the embers and put it out, and then he pops open the breast pocket of his jacket, pops it inside.

    And then he reaches into the waistband of his pants and pulls out his pistol. It’s hard to see the details in the halflight of the exit door, but he inspects it for detritus and makes sure that it’s loaded. As he pops the cartridge back in, he leans into the door and takes a step inside. While it closes behind him, he taps the brick he’d used to prop it open back into place with his foot.

    The whole shebang takes less time than he’d anticipated. The guy begs for his life, sure, but is smart enough to realize that it’s getting him nowhere. He quiets down for the last part - the part where SeLin reads him his list of transgressions and then puts the gun to his skull. The part where he pulls the trigger.

    The silence that follows is almost serene. Then the alarm on his phone goes off and he quiets that, too. The walk downstairs is short, interrupted only by a quick nod as a man and woman pass him in the hall. They’re wearing paper booties and gloves, each toting a black backpack over one shoulder.

    After he slips back out the door, he lights up again and starts walking. No need to hang around. In a rare moment of thought, he decides to send another message. It’s been such a long time since they’ve had the conversation, he isn’t so sure that his pal will remember it. It’s just a spark of interest, perhaps because of the mess he’s just made.

Your Love Style Is Agape

You are a caring, kind, and selfless partner. Unsurprisingly, your love style is the most rare. You are willing to sacrifice your world for your sweetie. Except it doesn't really feel like sacrifice to you. For you, nothing feels better than giving to the one you love.

Weaknesses

Temper - 62.5%  - You need to work on controlling your temper. Don't let your anger get the best of you. A calm and rational persona is important when dating.

Appearance - 55.6% - Devoting a greater effort at making good first impressions is a must. Try to be fit and develop a style if you want to catch a person's attention.

Selfishness - 54.5% - You think too much of yourself and your needs. You must learn to put your partner first and tend to their needs. 

Strengths

Flirtiness - 87.5% - Flirting is a good way to break the ice, and you are a pro at it. Being flirtatious will open up many dating opportunities.

Financial Situation - 76.9% - You've got your financial situation under control, which is a very desirable quality. Be careful to avoid partners who are only interested in your money.

Adventurousness - 75% - You are willing to try new things and be spontaneous. You want to get out there and really live, and you will attract people with a similar love of life.

Sense of Humor - 71.4% - People are attracted to people with a good sense of humor. Be sure to put yours on display!

Varied Interests - 71.4% - You don't limit yourself, and that's a dating asset. Your varied interests make you available and interesting to a wider range of dates.

He gets nothing but silence for a long beat, and he wonders if he’s crossed a line.

But Selin speaks eventually, and Sungjoon knows he shouldn’t have expected anything else. It’s an ugly answer to an ugly question and that’s all he can ask of him. He’d much rather hear the truth than some hollow words of comfort. Selin has seen and done worse than he could probably imagine, and he’s still standing. Alive, breathing, functional – more or less.

He’ll survive this. He’s been through enough fucked-up situations in his life to know that this won’t break him. He’ll get through it. Even if he never quite gets over it.

At least he’s got people in his life. That’s more than Selin has, apparently. Maybe he should try being grateful for once.

Because now that Selin’s brought it up, he’s realizing just how long it’s been since he did call her. He talked to her once, when he was still in Istanbul. She said he sounded different. It made him paranoid.

He’s the worst son in the world. It’s been a decade.

“I dunno if she is. I hope so.” Selin was probably half making fun of him, but he’s seriously considering it. “She doesn’t live in Korea. I don’t even have her current address.” He sits in silence, weighed down by guilt, until he forces himself back to the present.

He’s talking to someone with no family left.

When he picks up his glass again, he realizes it’s empty. Reaching for the bottle to fill it, he belatedly tries to do the math in his head. How many shots have they downed already? How much of this bottle will they finish? He doubts Selin will pick up more than his half of the tab. Not a chance in hell of that, really.

So he takes a look into his wallet, mind sluggishly catching up to reality. He’s already drunk away everything in here. He’s gone into the red, with only the boss’s money to make up the difference.

“Fuck.” A laugh escapes him, and he downs the shot regardless. He’s already fucked now, no matter what he does. He picks up the bottle again only to gesture at Selin with it. “How much they charge for one of these?” The question’s rhetorical; there aren’t any prices listed anywhere. “Get more for our money at the liquor store down the block.”

He’s not really serious about the alternative, but if they’re aiming to get fucked up, this could get expensive fast.

He debates whether he should tell Selin. Reluctantly, he settles on yes.

“So I might’ve, uh…. dipped into that money already.” A pause. “The money that’s not mine.”

    He’s known that Sungjoon has been to more places than just here for a long time, but he’s never really been sure how many, or where his parents are. From the sounds of it, Dad’s not in the picture (or’s dead). Mom isn’t really, either, but she’s still alive. Probably. Maybe one of the many scenic locations Sungjoon has been to.

    He wishes he could say the same.

    His right hand idly wanders up and over his left shoulder, to touch the place he knows a few lines of ink cover his skin. He’s sure that it’s all faded to hell by now, and he’s going to have to get it touched up soon. He can picture it underneath his shirt and jacket. Tries to play it off like he’s scratching his back before settling back into his usual posture.

    “Could help ya find’r, if ya want. Got friends in that department that owe me some favors.”

    He doesn’t know why he feels so much like helping this kid. Normally, he doesn’t get involved in other people’s business. This is a little different, he supposes - he actually likes this guy so far. And now he knows too much.

    The outburst of laughter is startling. The conversation had gotten so heavy that the sound is almost unfamiliar. He hadn’t been expecting it.

    And then he cracks a smile.

    “Too fuckin’ much,” he chuckles,”But what liquor store’s gonna give ya the fantastic customer service that Junho here’s providin’?” The bartender, recently returned from the back, looks him over with a certain amount of disdain. “We’re payin’ fer the experience.”

    It takes a second to process the information that follows.

    “Well, shit.” There’s really no fixing that, is there? “Shit, dude. Yer fucked.”

    He tosses some bills onto the counter and his last shot down his throat. He slides off the stool and adjusts himself before clapping his friend on the back.

    “There ain’t no goin’ back, though, is there? Might as well get fucked in style, aye?” He’s thinking on the fly, no real time to consider all the options. “Let’s hit up the place down the block and see what kinda shit they got.”

BASICS. •   NAME: ash •   PRONOUNS: he/him/his •   SEXUALITY: this •   TAKEN OR SINGLE: [ that feel when gf ]

– THREE FACTS. •   i do the art thing with the pencils and the tablets and paint and junk. uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hmu if you wanna see my dumb ocs that aren’t selin??? i won’t actually show you. •  i reply too! fast! to the point where i weeks or months without actual content to reply to because everyone has lives and “other interests.” psh. or i just never reply at all. y’know. •  i’m actually super boring and if you’ve ever talked to me on aim, skype, or discord, you know that. i’m a corn cob.

– EXPERIENCE. •   HOW LONG (MONTHS / YEARS?): so long. so, so long... so long. uh. 10-12 years? rp’s been on and off during that time. •   PLATFORMS YOU’VE USED:  ff.net, quizilla, dollwizard, proboards, livejournal, gaiaonline, tumblr, asianfanfics, a03, probably more. •   BEST EXPERIENCE: i’ve made many, many friends through rp in general. there are unspeakable times i won’t talk about here but through that fandom i gained a fantastic group of friends that have been with me to this day. i met a good many more in krp - notably @lithified​ and @ksung​. i still miss the ones that have since deleted and i only hear from once in a blue moon, but i hope they’re doing okay. i’m a sap.

– MUSE PREFERENCES. •   FEMALE OR MALE: i write mostly dudes, because it’s easier for me. i have had a couple ladies, but it’s not the norm. •   FLUFF, ANGST OR SMUT: i prefer angst and action. i used to write a lot of smut but now i’m very iffy on it unless i know the person. fluff is boring unless it’s with interesting characters. •   PLOTS OR MEMES:  gimme both. •   LONG OR SHORT REPLIES: i pretty much mirror whatever someone else writes, unless it’s formatted in a way that i find difficult or am loathe to replicate. i write simply. length doesn’t matter. •   BEST TIME TO WRITE: when i’m tired. when i’m laying awake at 3 in the morning, unable to sleep. in the middle of the day. after i’ve watched a movie. when i’ve listened to a song. all the time. never. •   ARE YOU LIKE YOUR MUSE(S):  it... depends. i’m both like and unlike selin in many ways. i drink and i wear all black outside of my work uniform. i own a leather jacket and leather boots. that’s... about where it ends. i don’t smoke a lot, don’t do drugs (a lot (stay in school, kids)), i don’t own a gun or any other weapon, i don’t care much for junk food, i don’t murder people for a living, etc. but i put pieces of me into all of my muses. he just happened to get my fashion and disdain for authority. TAGGED BY:  @ksung (ksnug)

He realizes with deafening clarity even as he confesses.

“I don’t hate him.”

No. Hatred does not quite fit. There’s no room for simplicity in a relationship that he allowed to become unfortunately complicated. He’s honest.

“I hate what he inspires in others.” Disorder, disobedience, and most of all, hatred for him as a leader. It’s rare he’s ever impressed anyone with a decision he’s made. Sungjoon in the gang breeds contempt for his leadership. Sungjoon causes anarchy.

Sungjoon has to die.

–but, not yet. Certainly not by his hand. Now it is just killing idea of Sungjoon in Selin’s mind that is important. Murdering a point of view takes time.

He unearths a pack of his own cigarettes– the kind Selin happens to like. The kind Sunggyu actually hates. He takes one out and lights the end of it as he inhales once. Smoke pours out between chapped lips.

“So, don’t drop him.” Exhale, eyes never wavering from a face that had become familiar enough for him to remember. “I’m telling you to be careful. What happened to Sungjoon– whatever he told you happened –happened because of what he’s done. Want me to call him a piece of shit? You already know that much.”

He leans on the wall, cigarette burning bright between fingers. He does not take another drag. Hates the taste, feels unsettled that he’s broken a habit just for this moment.

“Sungjoon betrayed the group– he didn’t finish a job. And if you’re not doing your job here, what’s the fucking point? You have a job, and you do it every day. You don’t have to like it. You just have to finish it.”

Finally, he inhales smoke. Disgusting, off-tasting brand. His expression does not change even when he throws it to the ground and stamps it out with his heel. Grinding ashes to dust and watching it go out.

“I’m not doing you any favors, but I’m on your side as long as you’re on ours. Sungjoon is only on your side until you can’t give him what he wants. Do you trust that?”

Sunggyu hands over the rest of the pack toward Selin, waiting for them to take it.

    Is there really a difference between hating what someone does and hating them? He’s not so sure. There are a million different arguments to that kind of thing, but he’s not the philosophically-inclined sort of guy that would sit around contemplating them all day.

    So he lets it go. He exhales the thought in a quiet huff of laughter. He’s not mentally prepared to have this kind of conversation.

    As his brain begins the phrase I need a-, his companion manages to produce a pack of cigarettes from the depths of his jacket. He wonders if the guy is some sort of secret telepath, or if it’s just a really good coincidence. Even more, he always seems to have SeLin’s favorite brand of menthols. They’re not as smooth as his usual, but these are easier to come by.

    Hell of a coincidence.

    “Ya make a fair point.” He’s right. A job’s a job, and who are they, really, to complain about it as long as they’re getting paid for it? None of them may have initially signed up for this, but there is a certain line you get to before there really isn’t any going back, and it’s easy enough to dip out before then. Once you’re beyond it... you just collect your proverbial check. It’s been a long time since he felt anything for what he does.

    He just does it.

    “Can respect that’n all, but fuck - if yer out here trustin’ anyone too much ya wind up in a gutter.” He takes the pack and knocks one loose. Puts it up to his lips and pokes through his pockets until he finds a lighter. “Kid, I don’t fuckin’ expect ya ta stick ‘round if I’m not doin’ my job. Boss’s only gonna keep me ‘til he doesn’t need me.”

    He lights up, sucks in, and breathes out.

    “So I’ll do whatever the fuck ya want: kill, steal, move product. Don’t give a damn. Ain’t no way I’m leavin’ now.”

    Another drag, and he looks this guy square in the face. It’s almost familiar now. They’ve seen each other a couple of times. He has distinctive features - sharp edges and smooth lines, knowing eyes weighed down by a fatigue that can only come from long days and longer nights.

    He needs to remember it all this time. He can’t forget.

    “If that asshole fucks up again... lemme know. I can... step in’r somethin’.”

    It’s almost pitiful. He knows the way it works here. Still, he doesn’t think Sungjoon deserves to die just because he screwed up once.

“Yeah,” he says dryly, hearing Selin’s assessment. “Pretty fuckin’ bleak about sums it up.”

And he’s tired of this. He’s tired of carrying around these grievances, being that depressing sad fuck drowning out his troubles with booze, doing stupid shit like spilling out his soul to some dirtbag in a dive bar. He supposes he had to talk about it eventually. If anything, there’s the comfort of knowing Selin is unfazed by any of this. Kid’s probably a sociopath, why should he care what Sungjoon’s done? It’s nothing to him. He’s more fluent in violence than Korean.

He dismisses the bartender quick enough, which Sungjoon’s grateful for. He fills his own glass again as Selin downs his shot in one go. Sungjoon’s doesn’t make it to his lips.

He’s gone silent at Selin’s question.

“You know,” he says eventually, hardly moving his lips. They feel numb, slow. “Everything you know about him, everything you’ve heard, you must know what kind of person he is. You know what he made me do.”

It’s all he could cling to, in those first few horrible days, to keep from blowing out his own brains too for good measure: he made me do it. Yet even as he says it he knows it’s not entirely true. In the moment he’d felt backed into a corner, his every move and thought in his head suffused with dread. He might’ve made it, if he’d acted fast enough. That night. He could’ve skipped town, left Seoul, left the country. He could’ve told his sister to do the same. He could’ve gone to Istanbul. Or better yet, gone somewhere he’s never been. Somewhere everyone would be a stranger.

No use dwelling on that now.

The person in the seat next to him is a stranger, more or less. But in little increments, he is becoming something else. With every fucked-up experience they share Sungjoon gets closer to counting Selin as a friend.

And that itself is fucked-up enough to make him laugh. Almost. It gets him breathing again, at least, dispelling some of the unease tightening his chest. “Shit.” He shakes his head, slowly, disoriented more by the worst thing he’s ever done lying out in the open than by the alcohol in his bloodstream. “What do you do with that? Y'know?”

He’s not sure Selin will have any answers. Maybe if he phrased it a little differently. Blunt and ugly, the way it keeps him up at night. A question he could just as easily ask Selin.

“How do you live with yourself?”

    They always go quiet when they talk about it.

    It’s a raw feeling, a horrible one, that washes over them. That makes their tongues heavy. It’s hard to talk about it - the unthinkable acts that they’ve now been party to. The first one is the worst, in his opinion. After that, it gets easier.

    Soon you lose count. You wash it all away with whiskey or chase it away with a high that keeps you from thinking too hard about anything. You get used to it, but you don’t forget them all.

    In between benders he remembers his first, and it makes him sick. It’s the one that chases you until the end.

    He knows.

    Hunched over the bar, pouring himself another shot, he tries to remember how to get the words to leave his mouth.

    “Yeah.”

    He clears his throat before downing this one, and he’s starting to feel fuzzy around the edges. If they keep going like this, he’s going to have to find somewhere to crash because he won’t be able to make it home.

    “Know I’m the picture of fuckin’ perfect health, but ya might be shocked ta know ya don’t really live with that kinda shit.” Knuckles go white around his glass. “Not when ya got some kinda life ta live, y’know? Got fuckin’... friends’n family’n shit.”

    A barking laugh is cut short.

    “S’easier fer people like me. Never really... had ta deal with that kinda... emotional turmoil.” It doesn’t feel right, what he’s saying. This whole conversation is off. “Yer mom still ‘round? Call her.”

    He sniffs.

    “Cry about it. Don’t fuck up’n tell anyone, but deal with it somehow, ‘r it’ll eat ya alive. Ya might want it to. But ya got people here that care ‘bout ya. S’not as bad as ya think.”