#e.starter

It wasn't unusual for Eddie to host a lavish gathering at his home for friends and clients every couple months. Other people in town were always welcomed to join, as well. This party extended beyond hospitality, it was a networking opportunity. In his world, relationships fueled business and his home -both a showpiece and social hub- was the perfect stage for the event.

"Do you think it's too late to have everyone sign a liability waiver?" The man joked, shaking his head with a light chuckle as two guests launched themselves into the pool, landing a little too close to other.

Eli: Lev is under strict surveillance. If you need to see him, I'm here to let you in.

eli vogel’s therapist told him about the concept of resurfacing memories. her voice soothed him through the idea that, at any given time, he would be thrown back-- ten, twenty, thirty years in the past-- and forced to relive whatever sequence of events his brain deemed too offensive to do anything but lock away for an indefinite period of time. and even better? it was a ‘ good ‘ thing. a way to achieve ‘ catharsis ‘. to ‘ recover from prior trauma ‘. 

the thought bubbled up word by word first and soon, it was a fully fledged image: or lack there-of. a closet, lit only by the inching in of light through the crack of the door. a towel shoved into the slit from the outside. a little boy, half starved and trembling-- begging please, dad.

it’s loud, it’s cold, and eli is dressed in an outfit that he can only describe as humiliatingly famliar. the typically clean-shaven chief of police is sporting a few days of strategic stubble and cargo shorts. though--- the latter isn’t entirely foreign for those few and far between days off spent anywhere other than the vasile manor. the smell of pot in the air is only masked by the mixed odors of shitty food and port-o-potties splayed inconveniently across the jay pritzker pavilion. even eli’s stomach, forged by the fires of weeks in the desert without a shower, begins to churn slightly.

with a gentle adjustment of the baseball cap sat tight on a head of hair that’s gone far longer than the typically regimented two weeks without a trim, eli sucks in a breath--- shuddering slightly at the bracing air. 

act natural.

“I hate to do this to you,” he doesn’t-    - in fact, he’s gripping the tops of his thighs to keep himself from smiling a little. something about it all, pulling the mayor into an interrogation room, feels like two puzzle pieces finally clicking together. still, his face is solemn.

this is weird. all of it. weird, awkward, and entirely out of eli’s hands--- and god that makes his skin crawl nearly as much as the reason for such a strange confrontation in the first place. it’s amazing, isn’t it?--?? they can torture a man with his son in the next room, but god forbid someone be a little ignorant. but whatever. eli isn’t going to think about that-- he’s going to pretend it never happened and move on to more important things: a bottle of whiskey, a pack of playing cards, and a stack of hundred dollar bills. 

the sound of the door prompts a turn of his head and for some fucking reason, he realizes his heart’s beating a little faster than usual. his therapist would tell him to take a step back from the confrontation to catalog your feelings and analyze the insecurities that lead you to make assumptions. if eli had a handy dandy little daily mood log, he would have written inability to form long lasting relationships with males and inability to admit defeat due to father’s instilling of admitting failure = admitting weakness = less worth. 

the sound of the basement door opening and closing pulls him back into the uncomfortable reality----