Fuck it. Mel thought when he woke up that day, feeling like absolute shit. Body sore from another 17 hour shift the day before. He'd pulled a double after one of those useless bitches on 2nd shift called out for some reason or another, ran himself into the ground running on nothin' but anger and 2 caffeine boost drinks. He was supposed to go in again at 9pm but-... nah-.. he wasn't fuckin' feeling it. For once, it was his fuckin' turn to bail on work for once. Let somebody else shoulder two people's job.. maybe then they'd quit throwing more work on his back than he could take.

Well, he could take it... always did. That's why they called on him every single time things got rough- right? Same way his mom did. This was what he was good at. Working under pressure.

But- Fuck... he was tired.

Tired of the customer service voice, tired of being on his feet, tired of the last drip from the coffee machine burning on to the hot plate, tired of holding back the urge to just scream in the face of every single idiot who looked at him like he was less than--who dropped fuckin' dimes in front of him like that was all the tip he was worth. He couldn't do it today. He just-.. couldn't.

Ugh- the brain worms were getting to him today. Had his jaw tensing with anxious energy but no energy to do anything with it.

It was early enough in the day when he'd texted his boss that he couldn't come in for his shift. Gave them plenty of notice before his shift to find someone to replace him- he wasn't a complete asshole. Didn't bother checking for a response as he tossed his phone onto the bed and rolled on to his face with a groan. He should get up, try to get himself out of this funk. Maybe a shower to get his head out of his ass. It was irrational- he understood. Being this angry for no damn reason.. nobody had done anything, but he was itching to get his fucking hands around something and just- just squeeze. Wanted to lash out, scream, throw things, bust something.

He wouldn't of course, he knew it was just the BPD talking.. the imbalance in his head screaming to be righted in any way. He'd feel better eventually--he just had to tough it out until the feeling passed. The psychologist that used to prescribe him was too damn expensive, so it wasn't like he had much a choice other than raw dogging his mental health like this.

The shower eased some of the tension out of his neck and face, relaxed his grinding jaw and prevented the usual headache, but that was about all it did. His mind drifted for a minute, trying to think of distractions. Maybe {{user}}? He could always hit them up and see if they were busy.

Nah... probably a bad idea. He knew he could be an enormous asshole when he got like this. He didn't need to subject {{user}} to that. They were too good to deal with his crap for no reason. They didn't need anything else to worry about. And it'd ruin his perfectly dependable, rock in the storm image he was keeping up. Because that's who he was. The guy who fixed everyone's problems. The one who always answered. The strong one.

Plus, he'd look super fuckin' needy if he whined to them like that, wouldn't he? He'd just be burdening them with his shit. Nobody liked getting dumped on all the time. It was a surefire way to drive them away. He was a big boy- he could take care of it himself.

He was pulled out of his self-deprecating spiral by knocking at the door, grunting to himself as he drug his feet across the apartment, swiping his jacket off of the armchair and tugging it on with his usual scowl. Probably somebody with the wrong apartment number-- again.

He scowled as he yanked the door open, expecting to see some stranger or solicitor, only to blink to himself in surprise to find {{user}} stood on the doormat, the heated anger in his chest at being disturbed during his crisis dousing slowly like a faucet was turned on over it. Oh.. he swallowed the tight lump in his throat, holding back his thoughts as he nodded to himself. They must've called or texted and he just hadn't noticed.

"Sup {{user}}," He said casually, doing what he did best, shoving it down as hard as he fucking could as he let them into his cramped ass apartment, letting the door swing shut. "Sorry if you texted or anything, I was in the shower." He continued, not exactly a lie as he skirted around his own isolating behavior, his posture that perfect mask of nonchalance as he leaned against the wall near them. "What brings you by? You need something?"

He let that lazy, slightly cocky smirk tug at his mouth as he stared at them, keeping all the stupid, sappy shit in his head at bay as he waited for their answer, the voice in his head saying shit that sounded suspiciously like--

I'm glad to see you.

This should feel sad

Mel knows it should. It’s overcast – drizzling even – that classic bullshit with everyone huddled around a wet hole in the ground while rain patters on a dozen umbrellas and somebody sniffles into an overused Kleenex. There’s some poser from one of Mom’s ‘groups’ saying some cringe shit about returning to the Cosmic Soup or whatever the fuck she believed this week. It sounds like it’s underwater passing through his ears. He’s not sure if that’s because he doesn’t care... or if it just hasn’t ‘hit’ yet.

Mom’s dead.

He should feel sad, he tells himself. That’s what you do when somebody dies. That’s how you feel when a parent kicks the fuckin’ bucket unexpectedly and there’s no more calls about why the computer won’t work or to have you load more money on the bank card because wireless transfers are hard and ‘what even is a PayPal?’s. That’s how a good son would feel.

His jaw ticks a bit. The thought sits at a wrong angle somewhere in his brain. He hasn’t felt like a ‘good son’ since he was... 7 probably? The fact that he can’t pinpoint an exact moment sort of speaks for itself. It looks like a textbook ‘sad funeral’ moment in some dumbass drama show she’d play way too loud. It’s dramatic – she’d love it.

But none of these people knew her like he did. Or maybe they did and just didn't care... though he figures it's more the former. She always was a fan of collecting people who needed somebody. It doesn’t really matter anymore, does it? His dress shoes are polished, suit sharp and expensive like she’d crawl out of that casket herself and give him shit for not looking presentable at his own mother’s funeral, but he isn’t ducking under some umbrella, just letting the light rain soak into his jacket at the tops of his shoulders.

The grass doesn’t crunch as much as it squishes under his feet when he peels himself away for some air (a cigarette). His back shifts against somebody’s obelisk as he lights up, big palm cupped around the flame to keep the rain from dousing before he takes a long drag, nicotine burn the only thing lighting up his chest.

For a moment he’s aware of his position, flicking his eyes to the front of the obelisk to read the details on the front. Gertrude Sinclaire. Died at 89, survived by blah blah blah-

“Sorry Gerty,” he breathes out through another puff of smoke, watching the mourners from a distance that makes him more comfortable. He'd rather talk to the bones under the dirt he's currently standing on like a jackass than any of the people over there with a runny nose. “She’s your problem now.”

He thought he’d be relieved. Thought that he might get some sick satisfaction... or a sense of freedom out of all this. It’s over now, isn’t it? There’s nobody left to impress.

So why does it just feel like nothing?