The Universe's Mixer

The news of Fred's demise had struck Christian hard. He hadn't expected to deal with loss so soon after Satine, and certainly not the loss of a woman who had shown him nothing but kindness. Thanks to Fred, he'd begun to feel a little more human, a little less like a walking sore. His writing had even improved, and Caritas' customers were enjoying the little karaoke plays he'd been piecing together.

But when he heard that his friend had died in a fire, a fire of all things, he excused himself from his duties at Caritas. Sleep was a distant memory. He wrote in spatters, but usually crumpled the paper and threw it toward the overfilled trash bin against his wall. For days he stayed in the tiny flat he'd taken in the City, reacquainting himself with the inside of a bottle, emerging only long enough to purchase more before returning again to his home.

It was on one of these excursions that he found himself literally too weary to walk the rest of the way to his flat. The park yawned greenly before him. It felt like it should be night; he was certain he'd left his apartment in the evening. But the midday sun shone merrily down on him. He groaned and collapsed on a park bench, dropping the cardboard box of cheap wine carelessly on the bench beside him.