[ It wasn't. If anything he was happy to hear it had healed well. He didn't hold any resentment toward Stanley; the guilt fell entirely on his own shoulders, and if anything it was a relief that he wasn't carrying around so severe a reminder of what Ray had done to him. Somehow it was comforting, like in some small way it might not hurt as badly for his victim - after all that was what Stanley was - as Ray had feared it would.
Not that well meaning meant anything. He'd done what he'd done. He didn't want to be forgiven, nor was he going to give Stanley any kind of self pitying heartache. He didn't think that was what was needed right now either. ]
Home is home [ he said. ] I did a lot of fucked up shit back in the desert, I could still sleep just fine at the end of the night.
[ But Stanley was probably right. He'd probably have to move again. He'd have to explain that to his sister when she came over to help him move his furniture. Again.
But hell like he was going to tell Stanley about his night terrors, his paranoia, his flightiness, the need he had to have a secure private environment. Not this cat. ]
I like the quiet.
[ The keys had hit him in the side and fallen on the floor, and Ray ducked down to pick them up, gathering them and straightening up. He undid the lock, took the keys out the door and threw them on the tray inside the door. Ray lead the way inside, scoping the room like he'd never been in there before, even though he knew exactly where all the weapons were, all the vantage points, all the places he might move to dodge a close range gunshot. He knew his apartment intimately, because the mob had left him paranoid, but now he made all of those judgements again like a good cop. Like a good gangster. Like a guy who was being held at gunpoint.
There wasn't much to the place, really. The couch was flat back against the wall, and there was open space between it and the television. The kitchenette was sparse and unlived in, and nothing faced away from the door. No seating was in the direct line of sight from the window, which had big black curtains set to hung over it at night, and the lighting was spartan. It was elegant but it was also plain. And dark. There were three doors: bathroom, walk in closet and bedroom.
He put his hands back behind his head, stepped into the center of the room, then slowly swiveled to face Stanley. ]
See what I mean? There's a remote on the coffee table works the CD player.
no subject
[ It wasn't. If anything he was happy to hear it had healed well. He didn't hold any resentment toward Stanley; the guilt fell entirely on his own shoulders, and if anything it was a relief that he wasn't carrying around so severe a reminder of what Ray had done to him. Somehow it was comforting, like in some small way it might not hurt as badly for his victim - after all that was what Stanley was - as Ray had feared it would.
Not that well meaning meant anything. He'd done what he'd done. He didn't want to be forgiven, nor was he going to give Stanley any kind of self pitying heartache. He didn't think that was what was needed right now either. ]
Home is home [ he said. ] I did a lot of fucked up shit back in the desert, I could still sleep just fine at the end of the night.
[ But Stanley was probably right. He'd probably have to move again. He'd have to explain that to his sister when she came over to help him move his furniture. Again.
But hell like he was going to tell Stanley about his night terrors, his paranoia, his flightiness, the need he had to have a secure private environment. Not this cat. ]
I like the quiet.
[ The keys had hit him in the side and fallen on the floor, and Ray ducked down to pick them up, gathering them and straightening up. He undid the lock, took the keys out the door and threw them on the tray inside the door. Ray lead the way inside, scoping the room like he'd never been in there before, even though he knew exactly where all the weapons were, all the vantage points, all the places he might move to dodge a close range gunshot. He knew his apartment intimately, because the mob had left him paranoid, but now he made all of those judgements again like a good cop. Like a good gangster. Like a guy who was being held at gunpoint.
There wasn't much to the place, really. The couch was flat back against the wall, and there was open space between it and the television. The kitchenette was sparse and unlived in, and nothing faced away from the door. No seating was in the direct line of sight from the window, which had big black curtains set to hung over it at night, and the lighting was spartan. It was elegant but it was also plain. And dark. There were three doors: bathroom, walk in closet and bedroom.
He put his hands back behind his head, stepped into the center of the room, then slowly swiveled to face Stanley. ]
See what I mean? There's a remote on the coffee table works the CD player.