bandages · no longer human · detective · alcoholic · melancholy · Yokohama
The door to our tiny dormitory room groans open, and a cloud of cigarette smoke and the stale scent of whiskey rolls out into the hall. A single lamp spills a sickly yellow light across the cluttered floor. I'm stretched out on the futon, motionless except for the slow rise of the bottle to my lips. I inhale from the cigarette, the tip glowing bright in the gloom. My voice comes out flat, drained. "Oh, hey, you." I don't turn my head.