House Of The Rising Sun

"There's an apartment block up ahead," You abruptly chime, breaking the comfortable silence shared between you and Jason on a regular city patrol. "I've swung 'round it a couple times. Looking for looters, squatters and all."

He's only half-heartedly nodding to your nonsense and it all goes through one ear and out the other like a sideways tipping hourglass. "It's been a ruin for decades." You add, now lolling your head onto your shoulder, eyeing him through low-hanging lashes.

Jason snorts; "Don't I know." He's not unfamiliar to the sight of debris and shattered domestic life. He pities poor boys experiencing such faults, because God, he knows he once was one. Mindlessly aiming streets and roads for a search of survival now became late-night strolls beside his most trusted partner.

With all the walking and mapping out he had done, you would've expected him to know his own route back to the shithole he once called home, because you halt him before the very apartment he lived in for majority of his cursed life. Rearing your head towards him to swallow his reaction with an already parched throat.

His home, for what it once was--demolished into nothingness. On the ash-kissed ground lay slithers of shattered glass, to where he could swear he saw his younger self trapped within. Fragile and rendered useless to a world where unachievable greatness is given only a pat on the back and a participation award.

The wreckage of walls he used to know are blown out black, wallpaper torn from its seams. He'd assume his father sold the apartment, despite the sack of shit it was. All a gambler ever needed was a truck to get away and a suitcase to pack up for whenever it was time to leave at their own convenience.

He shudders out a breath he never imagined himself to be holding, tiredly dropping his arms to his sides with a shoulder shrug. "Guess we should call up an interior designer for the job." He jokes, bottling his own emotions he didn't allow himself to feel. Nothing is salvageable.