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Aug. 13th, 2010
ma chambre a la forme d'une cage
Aug. 13th, 2010 11:20 pmTony's been in a bit of a numb fog for most of the day, ever since he got the call from his doctor's office, and of course he's turned to liquor almost immediately. He figures he's allowed, it's not every day you're informed that hey, you might have a malignant tumor hiding inside your skull.
Cancer. He can't believe it. There's no history of it in his family (he doesn't think), and he hasn't been presenting any symptoms.
Except that he totally has, he just never noticed them, explaining them away with his drinking problem or with the fact that he works ninety hour weeks.
Clutching his bottle of scotch, he makes his way -- without incident -- to the window, making sure it's unlatched so Jean-Paul doesn't have to bother with the front door, and then collapses back onto the couch. He's spent most of the day here, as evidenced by the alcohol lying around and the take-out boxes of Chinese food scattered across the coffee table, left to go cold, barely touched. He wasn't hungry. The TV's still on mute from earlier, stuck on CNN, and Tony has a horrible flash of seeing some news story about him and his tumor up there, false pity on the faces of the news anchors as they gleefully recount every last detail they can scrounge up about his death.
"Jesus, I need to snap out of this," he mutters to himself, flinging his arm over his eyes. He can't wait for JP to arrive.
Cancer. He can't believe it. There's no history of it in his family (he doesn't think), and he hasn't been presenting any symptoms.
Except that he totally has, he just never noticed them, explaining them away with his drinking problem or with the fact that he works ninety hour weeks.
Clutching his bottle of scotch, he makes his way -- without incident -- to the window, making sure it's unlatched so Jean-Paul doesn't have to bother with the front door, and then collapses back onto the couch. He's spent most of the day here, as evidenced by the alcohol lying around and the take-out boxes of Chinese food scattered across the coffee table, left to go cold, barely touched. He wasn't hungry. The TV's still on mute from earlier, stuck on CNN, and Tony has a horrible flash of seeing some news story about him and his tumor up there, false pity on the faces of the news anchors as they gleefully recount every last detail they can scrounge up about his death.
"Jesus, I need to snap out of this," he mutters to himself, flinging his arm over his eyes. He can't wait for JP to arrive.