You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness.
Sebastian Moran sat in his personal gun room, cleaning his favorite rifle. It gleamed in the harsh light of the room and reflected the small trail of smoke curling from Sebastian's mouth. The loneliness of the large room constricted his movements, and Sebastian remained where he was. There was no point to move around, to tell Jim to get his hands off the guns, to turn on the music because "I work better when there is background music" was Jim's motto.
Sebastian's thin hand reached up to deftly flick the cigarette out of his mouth. It landed on the cold linoleum, where it fizzled out with a puttering tendril of smoke.
That was another thing, he realized. Jim hated it when Sebastian would let his cigarettes die out on the floor. Just one more thing that would constantly remind him of Jim.
"Damn you, Jim," he growled, wiping his face with the back of his hand, the rough stubble scratching at his skin.
But the weird thing was, even though Sebastian was more than furious at Jim, he couldn't help but live this way. These constant reminders brought him further down but helped him live with the pain.
"This doesn't even make any sense, Jim, you bastard." He rummaged in his picket for another cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. His fingers fumbled with the lighter and flicked it on. He stood there, smoking alone, for just a moment thinking nothing at all.
He slammed his fists violently on the table, sending the guns clattering about on the surface. He stormed out of the room, not even bothering to turn off the light.
He thundered into the kitchen, where he found the nearest bottle of alcohol and promptly emptied a third of the contents into his stomach. He held the bottle by the neck between two fingers and meandered into the large living room. Flopping on the couch, he took another swig from the bottle.
So this was life now.