OOM: Happy Birthday

A birthday without him. Another birthday without him. Next year?

Christ.

He leans his back on the closed door and shuts his eyes. At least in here, there’s no need to worry about the front. No one is going to be coming in here. Never mind that they hadn’t really lived here for years - there’s still an orange shirt over the back of that chair in the corner, a dagger in the top drawer of the dresser. A wig from some show or another – hideous thing but it made him laugh – on top of the wardrobe. A toothbrush, a bottle of cologne. And pictures. All those pictures he took. They sit around, faced down, the people in them seeing nothing but the blank wood of shelves, the desk, the chest of drawers. He can’t stand to look at them anymore.

Maybe he’ll clean it up one day. Fuck, maybe he’ll hand the key back. Maybe.

Maybe.

But fuck it, today’s his birthday. He’s allowed to enjoy himself isn’t he? So he goes to the other dresser, the one that only he has the key to. It holds cash and guns and knives and drugs (and drugs, and drugs) and cocaine is what he wants tonight. No, needs. He can’t have what he wants but this’ll do. It’ll all do, for now.

It’ll have to.