Morning at the morgue-part one (Short Story)

 Part two will be posted some time tomorrow

     It was early enough for the fog to still sit against the floor of the street, dimming the lights of the cars that passed. Two yellow beams shown through the haze before whisking by in the distance. It was too early to be alive, too early to be out of the house. Rory could feel the morning ache at the corner of his eyes, his water lines burning with each slow blink. He swayed from the pounds of fatigue weighing in his chest.

     Much like the three nights before, He had not gotten much sleep. He had managed to smoke a few blunts to numb the sound of Jobie’s whimpering, but awoke when the sobbing began. Sometimes Gene would come in and pick Jobie up to bring him into his own room. But sometimes he didn't do anything.

     In the days after Ace was shot through the chest, Rory would sit up and rub Jobie’s back mindlessly. However, he now would stay lying and turned away from him, forced to witness Jobie’s testimony of guilt. Couldn't he just shut up?

     Even now, Jobie muttered anxiously beside him on the curb. He held himself tight, each hand gripping the other arm as his eyes watched the cars ahead. He had begged to go inside with Gene, yanking Gene’s arm as though trying to yank the decision of going alone from him. But Jobie had been rejected by Gene as he was so often nowadays.

     There was really no reason for them to be here if Gene was going in alone anyways. Rory would have been fine if they went without him, he could have stayed home and slept, then sat and watched the telly. What were they doing here anyways? What was this place?

     Though Rory did not look, the scrape of soles on pavement indicated Jobie had risen again. He kept standing and pacing, occasionally stopping at the door and peering inside through the glass before continuing to pace again. Then he would sit and hold himself, his little mutters making pricks at Rory’s tired headache.

     “Cmon man…” Rory muttered, his gaze staying forward. “Be quiet.”

     Jobie paused for only a moment before continuing.

     “Jobie, stop it.” Rory scolded, though it was rather half assed and bland.

     Why did he have to be like this? Why did the both of them have to be like this? Yea, its sad that Ace got a bullet between his ribs, but is this what they were gonna be doing now? It was miserable. Jobie never shut up, and Gene didn't say much at all unless he was shouting at Jobie. He just breathed real slow and slept a lot. Some days, he wouldn't get up at all.

     Jobie was such a nightmare on those days. Rory couldn't just watch TV, Jobie would cling to his legs and whimper into his lap. When Rory offered him a blunt, he would just turn his face away.

     Why do they have to be like this? Things wouldn't feel so awful if they could have just continued life. It's over now, let it go.

     Why was Rory even here anymore?

     The door came open, the hefty metal rattling with a thud after it closed. Gene’s heavy and slow footsteps neared Rory, a frantic Jobie following behind him. Gene’s brown jeans entered Rory’s vision, and he sat himself on the curb just beside Rory. His breathing was deep and slow, and he gave a short sniff to clear his nose.

Rory said nothing to Gene, and Gene said nothing to Rory.

     Gene’s wide palm pressed against his eye and rubbed while he pulled out his lighter and cigarette box. After slipping a thin fag from the set, he then opened the sleek silver and held the heat just below the bud. It burned briefly, lighting his face. Rather than offering a cigarette to Rory, he pressed the pack back into his right pocket.

     Rory could feel the phantom satisfaction of smoke nuzzling his lungs as he listened to Gene take his first deep inhale. The tip of the cig glowed, sizzling away into a gray ash. He expected to hear a slow exhale, but as Gene pressed the air back out it came in spurts. The large man covered his face, and he began to sob.

     It was an awful sound. There was a painful aching in his throat as a whimper would escape with the pulses of air. He was leant over as though expecting to throw up, both hands hiding away the sorrow in his expression. His large shoulders shook gently, and he did not take another deep breath of the cigarette to calm himself. Gene just continued to cry.

     That awful sinking pressed against Rory’s chest. It hurt.

     If Gene had not been his ride back home, Rory would have stood and walked away from the cries for help beside him. The sobs would fade away into the fog, and he would never hear them again. No more cries, no more muttering, and no more yelling.

     Rory gazed longingly out into the foggy road. His body could drift into the fog, become engulfed in it, and never be seen again. How nice that would be.