PROLOGUE
He closed his door shut and leaned against the cool steel frame of his car. The sirens blared as loud as they always had, flashing garish bright lights, pompously announcing the arrival of his colleagues. All around him, faceless people hurried importantly along, salvaging the ruins of another life, trying to find answers to vindicate the injustice that had fallen onto those no longer able to care. He placed his hands in his pockets and stared absentmindedly at the asphalt ground, at the black background and the shining -no, twinkling- tiny particles reflecting the dull yellow light of the street lamp above. Funny, he thought, how one can describe two very different sights in the exact same way. Words, language, the subterfuge of men. He took one last, long drag from his cigarette, and tossed it to the ground. He stared at the spent stub, sighed and picked it back up from the ground and dumped it back into his empty pack of Lucky Strikes. He'll find a bin to dispose of it later. He stared at the pack, reading the customary warning that comes with it, and pondered at the irony. When will they learn, that advertising the dangerous, the deadly, was just another effective way of goading the indignant to further challenge death. In any case, it did nothing to lessen his hold on the habit.
He placed the pack back in his pocket, and raked his hands through his hair. Another habit I cant seem to get rid of, he thought wryly. His mind wondered as his fingers closed around his pack and lighter in his pocket. He fiddled with the now-familiar feel of his lighter, the cold metal a comfort to his calloused hands. He couldn't remember the..the strangeness, the guilt, the apprehension and even slight excitement of his first drag. Sure, he could picture the scene clearly in his mind, but he couldn't, wouldn't remember the emotions that came with that memory.
He heard, or rather sensed, the familiar, heavy footsteps, headed his way. He did nothing to indicate that he noticed his partner's arrival, preferring to wait for him to call out to him, as per usual. Only then did he turn his head to meet his partner, nodding his greeting, accepting the Styrofoam cup filled with tepid, bad coffee, but coffee nonetheless. They both stood drinking in silence, taking in the scene that awaited them. Once finished, they tossed the empty cups into his car, and resolutely made their way again into another bout of sleepless nights, frustration and grief-stricken, justice-seeking members of the public. They flashed their badges, their passport to go through their looking glass, his partner used to joke, and once again shut the rest of the world out of theirs with a simple rise and fall of yellow-and-black tape.
He did not even need to switch on the light when he got back home, the better half of the morning already spent and gone. He hung his keys on their tiny hook, and placed his shoes neatly back on the rack. He hung his coat, tossed his jacket into the laundry basket, letting a small smile play on his lips, amused at how he still managed to retain his need for order and organization, at least when it came to his material possessions. He loosened his tie as he sat down and lighted a cigarette. Resting his stick on the ashtray, he went to the fridge and opened himself a bottle of beer. He took a long swig, and sat back down. Beer and cigarettes, his close companions, there to see him through the thick and thin of it all. He shook his head, refusing to ponder how he reached that stage. Years before, no one would have pinned him the type to spend his nights -no, days, actually- with a bottle in one hand, and a cancer-stick in the other. His brother, maybe, possibly, but him? Never, surely not! No, not Frank Hardy. He was too responsible, too concerned, too mature, too wholesome -too perfect.
As they say fellas, he thought mockingly, even the best fall down, and when they do, they fall down hard.