Antecedent 0.1

February 5th, five days after Taylor's hospital discharge.

Let's start a little bit before all the school stuff, shall we?

I lie in bed as I stare at the cuts on my left palm, placing the knife on my end table. They were quite shallow, not too wide in diameter. A few drops of blood swimmed down my love line, some bits reaching my wrist. One of the thin streams made a small curve on the skin over my scaphoid, splitting into two more.

I make a fist before putting my hand down, satisfied with the results. The application of these cuts was a quick experiment I wanted to get out of the way before returning to school. After all, most people become a bit disturbed if they see someone using a knife on themselves. I would assure them that it wasn't for any emotional reason. They would most probably still feel disturbed. I was fine with that. Well, not fine, more as if I had no strong feelings towards it.

One thing that I know I can feel at its full capacity is boredom. Mostly for the fact I feel it now, lying in bed. Before my incident, I'm sure that my stomach would be in knots thinking about going to school tomorrow, horror and revulsion creeping in at the thought of even facing those three monstrosities of which one-third used to be my friend. But now, it's surprising I ever felt that way in the first place. It was difficult to see them as that anymore; fearsome, loathsome, or otherwise. It was even difficult to see them as human anymore.

Tangent aside, this bored feeling wouldn't go away, even on previous nights. On my first night back from the hospital, I simply decided to sleep early. The second night, I found that to be difficult and resorted to an attempt at exercise. On the third day, I chose to try a nice stroll outside; my bedroom window, despite being on the second floor, was low enough for me to reach the ground with no real pain, though that could have just been the newly stunted nerves. It was wholly uneventful and quite calming, and I returned satisfied. Yet there was something gnawing at me as I went to sleep.

On the fourth night, I robbed a diner.

It had not started that way. It had started with another seemingly innocent stroll like the night before. I was calm, and so was the Boardwalk, a rare and welcome sight. The night air was cool, but not enough that I would need to wear a sweater, though I did either way. As I passed a gift shop, I felt a gust of cold wind blow over me. My attention was momentarily divided as I watched a piece of paper float by. When I turned my attention back forward, I found that the barrel of a gun was pointed at me.

As I stared down the barrel, I heard some noise.

"Gimme all you got and you don't have to get hurt."

I found myself too focused on the gun to care about the noise. I was absorbed in the craftsmanship of the pistol. A cylindrical barrel, some rust encroaching on one end of the grip, probably digging into the skin of the thing holding this miniature metal machine. The latter observation hadn't been part of the gun, so I chose to ignore it.

"I…I'm not joking! Gimme your money now!"

More noise. A distraction. I admired the grip further, a shinty curve with several little notches on the side, clearly made by a knife of some sort. They weren't too deep. Most of it was blocked by the things wrapped around it.

"Lady? Are you…what are you doing?"

My annoyance with the noise only increased. I tried to ignore it again as I gleaned at the inside of the barrel. I could see a small glint in the hole; probably a bullet, in one of the six chambers visible.

"Just give me the money!"

I became tired of the noise. I unfocused and looked at the source. A messy mop of black hair half-covered two distressed eyes, the pupils shaking as they stared at me. I connected these eyes to a hand, and this hand to a set of fingers, which held the revolver. I then realized that I was being mugged.

After our eyes met, my attention shifted back to the gun. It was more interesting to me.

"I wonder where it got this beauty?" I said to myself. There was a pause. The noise didn't respond for a few moments, allowing me to look a bit more at the revolver. I could mentally narrow down the type to a Colt before it replied.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Oh, so the noise had a problem with me? I hadn't even done anything to it. I decided that my annoyance had grown to a level I was uncomfortable with, so I unfocused from the gun again, seeing the thing that held it. A face with tight, sickly yellow curves in the cheeks, the messy hair falling over half of it. Those brown eyes glinted with something that, if I had not already experienced before, I would not have understood. Fear. "Just…just gimme…gimme the…" I cocked my head to the side.

"It seems like it is rather attached to the gun. But it doesn't seem to appreciate it, as evidenced by those knife notches on it. It doesn't appreciate the weapon, only the violent capabilities. I am not happy about this." I took a step towards it. "I want the gun. It will give it to me." The revolver started to shake.

"Wh…what?"

"If it gives me the gun, I'll see it as a person and let it leave. If it uses the gun on me it will just be an obstacle in between me and the weapon I want." The revolver shook more.

"You…you…I…" The lack of a response and the shaking of the gun gave me all the incentive I needed.

I walked away holding the gun two minutes later at a brisk pace. Gunshots in the darkness usually attracted the wrong people. Self-defense is always necessary.

At that point, with the gun, I reached a logical dilemma. I had the gun from that rude thing, but I didn't know what to do with it; I couldn't only admire and inspect for too long without becoming bored. So, what would I do with it? I did not have any plans to kill someone with it yet, so that was out of the question for now. I could find someone and sell it, but that would be risky, dangerous, and would most probably end in me going to jail or getting assaulted by thugs, so that was also a no-go.

And then I walked by a place called Sabrina's Lobster Party.

It seemed to be a quaint enough place. It definitely wasn't lively enough to be considered a party, but through the windows, I could see a plentiful amount of customers sitting in the booths. I stood outside for a moment, contemplating my thoughts. I wasn't exactly poor, but my situation usually called for the need of extra money whenever possible.

I started to take off my hoodie and wrap it around my mouth in a pseudo face-mask, placing it strategically to cover just enough so that people wouldn't be able to pick me out in a line-up, if it ever came to that. I cocked the pistol. I walked over to the door.

There was some resistance from the people inside at the start. It was understandable. One shot from the gun into the cushion an inch away to the main resistor's thigh was enough to quiet them down. It was a lucky shot; I was not trained in proper use of firearms. Either way, it was a quick and efficient robbery, if I do say so myself. The lady at the cashier gave over all the money in the register, and was kind enough to show me into the back room, where the past month's earnings were stored as well. I hadn't even asked her for that; she even gave me a takeout bag I could take the money in. I walked out of the diner about four minutes after I walked in, satisfied with my choices for the night.

I took the long way home, ducking into multiple alleyways and dark streets to hide myself from anyone who could have followed me. I found myself at what seemed to be a homeless camp. A few men were gathered around a trashcan fire, hands held out for warmth. I was about to pass by when an idea shifted through my head. I walked over to them and cleared my voice to make myself known. They turned to me, confused. Wordlessly, I unwrapped the sweater from my face and laid it on the ground in front of me. I turned and left after the short interaction, not interested in what would happen after.

I reached home about ten minutes later, around eleven-thirty according to my alarm clock. I slinked into my room, making sure to keep my footsteps light and window creaking to a minimum. As soon as I finished with that, I reached under my bed and pulled out an old shoebox, removing the little Light-Em-Up-Rollies' inside and replacing them with the gun and the money. I quickly shoved both things back underneath before jumping into bed, pulling my blanket over me and having a well-deserved rest.

Now, a night later, I find myself thinking about the diner robbery. How I felt during it. I have already described my muted emotions, but one thing that didn't seem to be affected by this numbness seemed to be adrenaline. Thrill. Excitement, though usually only pertaining to dangerous escapades. It was the most I had felt since before the hospital. I wanted, needed, to feel that again. I sit up in my bed and lower myself to the floor quietly. I reach under, pull out the shoebox, and open it, the glistening handle of the Colt staring back at me atop the money. I pause before I grab it in my right hand, closing the shoebox and pushing it back under the bed. I check the ammo: five bullets. My lower lip twitches. It took me one bullet to rob a diner.

How many bullets for a house?