(no subject)
Jun. 23rd, 2013 09:04 pmNick had woken up with the thought that maybe he'd be productive for once. Clean up (though he'd been better about cleaning up in general, but clean up in a way that was approaching something Schmidt might approve of slightly), go out to do something that wasn't a lot of sitting around doing nothing. It was becoming increasingly obvious he was stuck here for some long amount of time, and maybe it was time to accept that.
Or at least not fight it as much.
He was almost done putting stuff away when he first spotted it among some papers he had laying around. He was honestly about to trash the whole pile when he noticed the gaudy print of something that seemed out of place. Pushing aside the papers on top of it, he found himself staring at a card with a picture of his father's face on it.
He didn't know how long he stood there just staring at it. It simply said WALT - THE KING from what he could see so far, but he had a feeling already what it was for without even opening it. Despite suddenly wanting to throw it away, he uneasily picked it up and opened it.
That was all he needed for confirmation really. The memorial card was simple, with Psalm 25 on the back and a date beyond the last day he remembered being home as his death date. Apparently life kept marching on back home, and his life included this.
He wasn't really sure what to do with the information. His feelings about his father had always been conflicted at best. He probably should even be happy he was here and not there, where he was sure his family would've looked to him to get a funeral together. If he didn't know the first thing on how to react to the news here, how bad would've it been had he been back in Chicago?
What he could settle on was that he could make another check mark on why he hated this place. What was the point of finding the card here? It wasn't like he could do anything about it now. If the date was right, it was months ago anyway. In the end, being annoyed at that, too, was pointless. Everything about this place was absolutely pointless.
He ended up drinking instead of wallowing. Or drinking enough to ignore the fact he was wallowing. Sure, he was pretty sure he had plans for that night, but he forgot all about them by the third beer he had. As night fell, he was on his way to being properly buzzed, which was a nicer feeling than the oddly crushing sensation he felt on his chest earlier. He'd propped the card up on the table he was sitting at a little while ago, and he just sort of stared at it as he opened another bottle. He was about to drink it, but he paused instead, tilting it toward the photo.
"To you, you old bastard," he said, the slight slur in his voice apparent. He was apparently not nearly drunk enough for the simple action, because that crushing feeling came right back again.
He sighed and took a sip of his drink, sitting back in his chair. The thought of just throwing the damn thing away was getting to be tempting, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. If he could get himself drunk enough, he wouldn't have to think about why that might be.
Or at least not fight it as much.
He was almost done putting stuff away when he first spotted it among some papers he had laying around. He was honestly about to trash the whole pile when he noticed the gaudy print of something that seemed out of place. Pushing aside the papers on top of it, he found himself staring at a card with a picture of his father's face on it.
He didn't know how long he stood there just staring at it. It simply said WALT - THE KING from what he could see so far, but he had a feeling already what it was for without even opening it. Despite suddenly wanting to throw it away, he uneasily picked it up and opened it.
That was all he needed for confirmation really. The memorial card was simple, with Psalm 25 on the back and a date beyond the last day he remembered being home as his death date. Apparently life kept marching on back home, and his life included this.
He wasn't really sure what to do with the information. His feelings about his father had always been conflicted at best. He probably should even be happy he was here and not there, where he was sure his family would've looked to him to get a funeral together. If he didn't know the first thing on how to react to the news here, how bad would've it been had he been back in Chicago?
What he could settle on was that he could make another check mark on why he hated this place. What was the point of finding the card here? It wasn't like he could do anything about it now. If the date was right, it was months ago anyway. In the end, being annoyed at that, too, was pointless. Everything about this place was absolutely pointless.
He ended up drinking instead of wallowing. Or drinking enough to ignore the fact he was wallowing. Sure, he was pretty sure he had plans for that night, but he forgot all about them by the third beer he had. As night fell, he was on his way to being properly buzzed, which was a nicer feeling than the oddly crushing sensation he felt on his chest earlier. He'd propped the card up on the table he was sitting at a little while ago, and he just sort of stared at it as he opened another bottle. He was about to drink it, but he paused instead, tilting it toward the photo.
"To you, you old bastard," he said, the slight slur in his voice apparent. He was apparently not nearly drunk enough for the simple action, because that crushing feeling came right back again.
He sighed and took a sip of his drink, sitting back in his chair. The thought of just throwing the damn thing away was getting to be tempting, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. If he could get himself drunk enough, he wouldn't have to think about why that might be.
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