InsaneJournal

Who: Trenton. Just a narrative.
What: Talking himself out of feeling bad for the redhead.
Where: P4.
When: Morning after.
Warnings: cursing, pills, pomegranate juice, and the general sexy that is in all Trenton posts.


Sleep was fitful, even with the heavy curtains of his bedroom drawn tight against the onslaught of dawn's light. Roused after a dreamless trio of hours, Trenton pried himself loose from the threads of a wifebeater en route to his kitchen.

The living room wore the memory that his sober mind almost wished to suppress. Playing cards spread across the floor like a tarot reading of his own lust. The lacy fringe of panties beside the couch. Shoes, forgotten or just abandoned near his front door. Trenton rubbed the rough edge of his jaw, considering the accusatory echo of all these clues as he lifted a bottle of pomegranate juice from his fridge. Antioxidants and youth eternal, he took a sip.

In the chrome shine offered by the refrigerator door, his reflection was warped. Trenton twisted, catching reddened glimpses of what felt like claw marks going down the back of one shoulderblade.

Ah, cherie.

She'd had the delicate face of a china doll. And was just as fragile. Taking another mouthful of juice, he mused on the way she'd arrived at his door stained with tears. Some semblance of a conscience he'd tried to kill long ago chirped like acid in his ear. She'd been hurting and he took advantage of that.

"Bullshit.." The word was whispered as his only defense before he was storming back to the dark enclave of his bedroom. Kicking the door shut behind him, taking his juice back to bed. He hadn't led her on. She knew what this was. She came here for distraction, and he gave it to her.

Where did she get the nerve to get so fucking emotional afterward?

Whomever she'd been crying over, it wasn't him. Whoever hurt her, it wasn't him. She came here with baggage, he assured himself. What had he ever done to deserve somebody's tears?

Nothing, and he preferred it that way. He was nothing to get so worked up over. He was a hollow figure, nothing of substance. He was a brief kick around the tilt-a-whirl, he was a good laugh, and a good night, and a never see you again.

He was a quick fuck, or a handful of pills.. how long could something like that really go on? Trenton lived a lifestyle that on a good day most people wouldn't be able to stomach. What kind of girl would stitch herself into that?

And why, god why, did he always opt for the ones with such sincere eyes?

Trenton slumped back against the mound of pillows and designer sheets, watching the ceiling with note of disdain. Because he already knew the answer. They were the ones that looked at him like he might be able to help them, and he just had to prove them wrong.

Trenton snatched a couple of vicodin off his dresser and drained the remainder of that juice in swallowing them. Turning into the call of sheets with a yawn, and an affirmative answer to nobody in the room.

"You really are a fuckin' prize, man."