"I can't help being like this"

Jennifer's Notebook

Jennifer

I stare at the ceiling, wide awake. I can't sleep, never can, but especially not with four strangers in my house. Too many thoughts running through my head. I glance at the bedroom door. Still locked. My gun rests on the nightstand, within reach. Just in case.

I slide off the bed and press my ear against the wooden door. Nothing. What are they doing? Did they leave? Why do I let them stay? What is wrong with me?

No... you don't want to go there tonight.

I sigh, walk over to the small bar in my room, grab a glass, and pour myself a shot of whiskey, needing to quiet my mind. I fill my lungs with the sweet, cedar scent of the whiskey.

After the fourth shot, the thoughts begin to fade. Much better. So much better.

When I was younger, I felt the burn in my throat. Now it's just a friendly warmth. My stomach growls. I don't think I've eaten since breakfast. I take my gun, hesitate for a second at the doorknob, then unlock it and step out. To my right, toward the kitchen, I see Mark, wearing Nico's old clothes that fit too tight. He's devouring a plate of plain pasta with almost desperate hunger.

With the whiskey in my system, everything feels a little numb. It gives me the courage to get something to eat, but not enough to be careless. My gun stays tucked in the pocket of my big, fluffy robe. I walk into the kitchen with firm steps, make myself a sandwich in silence, and sit on the sofa with my back to the counter. The TV is already on, today's news at low volume. I hear running water and dishes clinking behind me. He's cleaning up? Didn't think they'd listen.

Nothing is out of place. The bloodstains from his wounded friend are gone. Only a faint mix of iron and bleach lingers in the air, an invisible proof. Uneasiness creeps in, shivers down my spine. I focus on the screen instead.

"A citizen saw the smoke while passing by and called the fire department. When they arrived, they found the house on fire. Authorities are currently investigating what happened, and whether there were any victims."

The house is unrecognizable, just a black and gray skeleton of what it used to be. The grass around it is gone. Everything burned to ashes.

Mark now stands to my right, watching the TV. Silent. I look at him, only hardness in his expression. No sadness. No grief. Their house looked like something out of a soulless minimalist architecture magazine. But maybe to them, it was a home. Maybe it was everything. Like this house is to me.

He doesn't say a word. I don't either. And maybe it's the whiskey, or maybe it's the fact he doesn't even glare at me. He knows I'm here, but he's not trying to take anything from me. Whatever it is, it's enough.

I quietly go back to my room, lock the door and pour myself one last shot. Now, with my stomach full, alcohol dulling the edges of my mind, and my gun tucked under my pillow, I think I can finally catch some sleep.