Note: Thank you for every one of your comments Porcelain, they're all greatly appreciated.

T. Redman
Corner of Columbia and Cherry
11:36 p.m.

"It's alright man," Mason said wearily, gently cuffing Terry Redman's arm. Terry Redman was maybe twenty years old, a thin smallish boy with big, bloodshot eyes, and alabaster skin – he hadn't got very much sun or sleep over the last few days because of a week-long crystal methamphetamine binge.

Terry regarded Mason with those wide eyes,

"The pain's gone now." Mason assured him, and led Terry away from his corpse, face down on a Seattle sidewalk, surrounded by rubbernecks who had seen him jump the ten story building. They were just – watching. Like they expected him to get up again, or call an ambulance for himself.

Not that it mattered though, he was long gone. His ribs had collapsed in on his lungs and punctured his heart when he'd hit the pavement.

Terry hadn't been able to get off the meth; he'd tried for three and a half months, and it had become too much for him – he'd had a relapse, and when he started coming down from it on the eighth day, and had no more of the drug, and no way to get any more, he'd given up. He'd thrown himself off the nearest tall building to stop the hunger, the darkness, and the itching that made his skin feel like it was alive and burning.

"It won't hurt anymore." Mason said, and the emaciated soul of Terry Redman gave him a final, sidelong look, before looking off towards the blazing lightshow that every soul got. Mason didn't know what Terry was seeing, but whatever it was, he hoped it would make the kid happy – no one should have to live where their life is a much more painful choice than death.

Mason watched him go, and the light closed up, and he sank down onto a bench, closed his eyes, and tried not to think too hard.

It didn't work, so he went for his flask.

And it wasn't there.

Sitting up suddenly, Mason began to pat at his pockets, all over his jacket, his pants, even tried the back of his head for some reason. He'd lost his flask; how had he done that? Last time he'd had it was –

The Waffle House.

Mason could see it in his mind's eye, as Rube put his arm around his shoulders to lead him outside.

"That sneaky bastard." Mason said.

He really needed a drink.