Post by Roy Atenwood on Dec 9, 2007 18:59:07 GMT -8
(OOC:Soundtrack for the post.)
Roy Atenwood sat near a small coffee shop, smoking a cigarette he had bummed off a guy he saw lighting up. Hew had struck up a conversation, but such things never lasted long.
Not for him, at least.
He stubbed it out....thinking he should quit, and tossed the butt behind him. His stomach grumbled, but he'd handle that later. today was a day for...nothing in particular. His medication made him calmer, even if it gave him a violent streak. Mixing adderal and Fluxotine was never a good idea, and he had a few personality disorders that neither of them helped with.
His olive green parka and baggy black jeans flapped in the wind, as he walked the sidewalk...even in California, the cold was the cold. Oregon had been about this bad, he guessed, and Manhattan had been worse. But at least he had a place to stay.
As shitty as the apartment was, and even though he was the only person living in it not associated with a gang of some sort, it was a roof over his head....it was a blessing, no matter how shitty it was.
He came to a McDonalds, and fished in his pockets for a few minutes, coming up with a dollar and thirty eight cents. He thought better of walking in and buying a burger, though...that much would be four or five packs of Top Ramen, and he could eat for a few days, with that. He let out a small sigh.....Christmas was coming up. Because of his stupid vigilante shit, he had lost every friend he had, and recently been disowned by his adoptive family.
Nobody even knew he existed, here. That Micheal kid, who seemed to be a big fan of The Raven, and that crazy girl, Miria. Only two people here knew his name.
A low, mournful laugh escaped his lips as he walked the streets of Long Beach. Looking down at his watch, he noted the time.
9:30 PM.
Full moon, too. Great night for a walk if you had nothing else to do. And The Raven wouldn't be showing up again.
Unless he was truly pissed at someone, The Raven was dead and buried.
He took a second cigarette out of his jacket, as he had bummed two from the guy, and tossed it behind him. He couldn't afford them, AND they were hard on his lungs. Afterward, he just kept walking.
Roy Atenwood sat near a small coffee shop, smoking a cigarette he had bummed off a guy he saw lighting up. Hew had struck up a conversation, but such things never lasted long.
Not for him, at least.
He stubbed it out....thinking he should quit, and tossed the butt behind him. His stomach grumbled, but he'd handle that later. today was a day for...nothing in particular. His medication made him calmer, even if it gave him a violent streak. Mixing adderal and Fluxotine was never a good idea, and he had a few personality disorders that neither of them helped with.
His olive green parka and baggy black jeans flapped in the wind, as he walked the sidewalk...even in California, the cold was the cold. Oregon had been about this bad, he guessed, and Manhattan had been worse. But at least he had a place to stay.
As shitty as the apartment was, and even though he was the only person living in it not associated with a gang of some sort, it was a roof over his head....it was a blessing, no matter how shitty it was.
He came to a McDonalds, and fished in his pockets for a few minutes, coming up with a dollar and thirty eight cents. He thought better of walking in and buying a burger, though...that much would be four or five packs of Top Ramen, and he could eat for a few days, with that. He let out a small sigh.....Christmas was coming up. Because of his stupid vigilante shit, he had lost every friend he had, and recently been disowned by his adoptive family.
Nobody even knew he existed, here. That Micheal kid, who seemed to be a big fan of The Raven, and that crazy girl, Miria. Only two people here knew his name.
A low, mournful laugh escaped his lips as he walked the streets of Long Beach. Looking down at his watch, he noted the time.
9:30 PM.
Full moon, too. Great night for a walk if you had nothing else to do. And The Raven wouldn't be showing up again.
Unless he was truly pissed at someone, The Raven was dead and buried.
He took a second cigarette out of his jacket, as he had bummed two from the guy, and tossed it behind him. He couldn't afford them, AND they were hard on his lungs. Afterward, he just kept walking.
