An attempt at writing in the second person.
Dust and Milk.
The alarm choruses, making the glass of water on the bedside table shiver into rings, crashing against the sides, then together. You were already awake. The alarm never serves a purpose; you just wake up in time to begin your morning routine by turning over and stopping it after its first chime.
You raise yourself off the bed and walk to the bathroom: the only other room of your tiny apartment. You look in the mirror to see your black suit is neatly pressed and hung up on the inside of the door behind you. It looks a little lighter than you remember. The mirror also reveals a scar on the left side of your forehead that you've never noticed before. You don't think its out of the ordinary. In your life you'd collected many unusual scars. This one is just peeking below your hairline; it's probably been there all your life.
You reach for the green toothbrush with the confused bristles that demand replacement. You tell yourself to pick one up on the way home from the ceremony. You need to get milk anyway.
There is a knock at the door - three in quick succession. You weren't expecting company? You look at the clock. 10:07. You walk back to the bed and retrieve the Glock handgun from the bedside drawer.
"Who is it?"
The door answers, "It's me. Jimmy."
"Just a second." You place the Glock back in the bedside drawer and go to greet your brother.
You open the door and defend your eyes from the sunshine trying to contract them too abruptly. Jimmy is standing at your door, looking hollow and depleted.
"Hey."
"Hey. You cut your hair?"
Jimmy looks confused. "What? Oh. Yeah, I did." He scratches his head and looks at his feet.
You look at the stained singlet hanging from his shoulders. "Where the hell's your suit?"
Jimmy looks around ruefully and scratches his head. "Yeah, I know... can I just come in?"
You gesture inside. He looks around at the cardboard boxes and cartons neatly folded in the corner of the room. They're covering the vinyl flooring that has curled itself into scrutiny. He looks at the washing up, now clean and dry from the night before, resting on a rusted rack, resting on a stained bench-top. Jimmy opens the fridge.
"You're out of milk," he says.
"Yeah, I know. I'll get some after." Jimmy closes the fridge door but continues to stare through it. He turns around. You've seen that same pained look; many times, in fact. The first was when you'd thought Leslie Grey from High School was interested in you. Jimmy had to tell you that she was having sex with his friend.
"What is it?"
Jimmy walks in a slow zigzag to the bed, scratching that same patch of his shaved head. He sits down and mutters, "I thought this would get easier."
"Look, Jimmy. This life is hard on us all. Paulie knew what he was getting into."
"No. I'm not talking about... Just..." Jimmy retreats back into silence.
"Jimmy, you really have to put a suit on. The other boys won't like any sign of disrespect at this thing." You begin to walk to the bathroom.
"Lou, wait. Something happened at Paul's funeral." Jimmy's voice is hurting.
"What? How? No one's supposed to be there 'til midday."
Jimmy inhales deeply and looks into your eyes. "Lou. There was a retaliation; a hit. Someone got shot."
You stare back.
"Who? Who was it Jimmy? Are they... Are they dead?"
Jimmy tells you what happened almost year ago, when the Family went to pay their respects at Paulie's funeral.
***
You wake.
The alarm choruses, making the glass of water on the bedside table shiver into rings, crashing against the sides, then together. The alarm never wakes you up; you just wake up in time to turn over and stop it after its first chime.
You raise yourself off the bed and walk to the bathroom: the only other room of your tiny apartment. You look in the mirror to see your black suit is neatly pressed and hung up on the inside of the door behind you. It looks a little lighter than you remember. The mirror also reveals a scar on the left side of your forehead that you've never noticed before.
I attribute this to my own difficulty with short term memory.
I'm Sorry. Ethan..
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