Disclaimer: It pains me to remind myself every time, but I don't own the movie or the characters.

This is one of those stories that hounded me until I decided to post it. Anyhoo, it looks like it's going to be more than my usual "flangst." That aside, it might just go somewhere with proper direction….

"Close to Home"

Once Curt had finished a stint with one person, he would move on to another one. This became like a habit now—no—a routine. It was his way of human recycling, and each heart broken (whether it was his or not) was another dose of reality that shot him back. But it was temporary. And when its effects have faded, he'd return to the way he was before he started.

She was younger, much younger than he was. Curt thought that this young woman that he was with now seemed promising. He figured that he'd let her stick around for a month or two, maybe more.

Curt felt great when he was with her. She had a kind of beauty that wasn't exactly pretty, but striking and powerful. He had a hard time explaining for every moment she caught him staring at her so deeply. They were on a reasonably even level of intellect, with Curt always in search of a fellow dreamer, and somewhat of a realist at the same time to keep him at bay. He found that in her, alright. There was this quality she had that made him excited about life again. All her little quirks fed into her resonating persona, all at once exhilaratingly reckless but also rationally controlled.

It took three weeks. Three weeks had passed and Curt begun to forget about Brian almost completely. After those three weeks, either he wouldn't think of Brian at all, or he would, but it wouldn't be out of sadness or regret. It would be of something warm, sweet, happy; like a fond memory. God. It was about time too. How long ago was it that he and Brian separated? It must've felt like decades.

In all those years he never found out what became of his former love, where he disappeared to. If maps were made of tears he would've had the entire world at his hands. Still, maps were of no use if you didn't know where the hell to look. But three weeks ago, Curt had no idea what he was looking for, but he found it anyway.

Rhea Rowe was the name of his new girl. He thought it was quite a classy name for a street-whore. He remembered speaking to her condescendingly, feeling ashamed now, considering that at the time he was pouring cold sweat, convulsing every half-minute, and feeling like he was going to throw up. Any hooker, no matter how scum-poor or dead-starving, would've thought twice before going along with someone in the state he was in.

Regardless, she bit part of the bait that was more for him than for her. Hours later, he would realize that his kerb-crawling search for a sexual tryst was meant to be something more.

"You stick yourself?" she asked Curt, who was only starting to wake.

"What's it to you?"

"It's not good. Not to mention it brings more writhing than necessary." she answered confidently.

"Don't school me." Curt said, sounding a bit pissed.

"Don't kill yourself."

"What do you know? Stop trying to act concerned, cause you don't know me."

Curt got up from the futon on the floor and pulled his clothes hurriedly over himself. He reached for some bills from a trouser-pocket and threw them at the girl, almost hitting her face. Then he walked away.

She spoke.

"Damage is only sweet when it's fresh. After a while it becomes rotten. It tastes rotten."

Bang. Exactly the type of thing to say to stop Curt Wild in his skidding tracks.

"What are you trying to say?" he asked, almost nicely. She had his attention now.

"Nothing. I'm…trying to make sense of life."

Curt grinned a little and pulled another bill.

"No, no, no." she said, seeing Curt's action as an attempt to shut her up. "You're staying here and we're gonna talk."

"What do you want? My autograph?" Curt questioned, after a bout of shaking. His sarcasm would've been funnier if he didn't waver so much.

"Everything else."

She smiled then, as if she just won herself a prize.