(no subject)
Sep. 7th, 2008 11:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
typedPaul Avery is hired.
At the Sacramento Bee.
On the crime beat.
-- He promised he wouldn't. Wouldn't go back to writing stuff like this.
But as he sits, alone, in his houseboat, the memories come flooding back.
Trying to get Toschi to let him in on the details, trying to help -- hey, bullitt! you gonna catch this guy or not? -- getting that letter -- don't tell me that's a piece of bloody shirt-- shit! holyfuckingcrap -- trying to use Graysmith as a kind of working dog -- you go find the papers, i'm going to stand here and attempt not to vomit -- drinkingsmokingswallowing away a lot of his sorrows and finally walking out.
I AM NOT AVERY.
I AM NOT AVERY.
Walking out.
He almost doesn't remember why he did it, anymore. Why he gave that up. Why the fucking hell he gave that job up, when he knew, he knew it was (ironically) the only thing that kept him sane.
(He works, he goes insane. He doesn't, he gets even worse.)
I AM NOT AVERY.
He doesn't try to pretend that he doesn't scan the newspapers for reportings of the Zodiac. He doesn't try to pretend that he doesn't occasionally wonder if throwing out all of his Zodiac files was the right thing to do.
Sitting on one of his couches, surrounded by empty bottles and still-burning cigarette butts, he tries to collect himself. He tries to convince himself that he can do this, that he can return to working free from any stigma or guilt.
(He can't.)
He drinks, and coughs. God damn it all to hell and back again. He looks at the lapel pin in his fingers, and, after the briefest moment of hesitation, throws it against the opposite wall.
(He cries, for the first time in years.
Rage, desperation, sadness.
He feels everything and nothing.
He knows he's not complete without a story.
He knows he won't function for long with one.)
Paul Avery falls asleep as the sun rises, surrounded by empty bottles, glasses, and ashes.
Lost on the floor, the lapel pin catches slivers of the sun.
I AM NOT AVERY.
At the Sacramento Bee.
On the crime beat.
-- He promised he wouldn't. Wouldn't go back to writing stuff like this.
But as he sits, alone, in his houseboat, the memories come flooding back.
Trying to get Toschi to let him in on the details, trying to help -- hey, bullitt! you gonna catch this guy or not? -- getting that letter -- don't tell me that's a piece of bloody shirt-- shit! holyfuckingcrap -- trying to use Graysmith as a kind of working dog -- you go find the papers, i'm going to stand here and attempt not to vomit -- drinkingsmokingswallowing away a lot of his sorrows and finally walking out.
I AM NOT AVERY.
I AM NOT AVERY.
I AM NOT AVERY.
Walking out.
He almost doesn't remember why he did it, anymore. Why he gave that up. Why the fucking hell he gave that job up, when he knew, he knew it was (ironically) the only thing that kept him sane.
(He works, he goes insane. He doesn't, he gets even worse.)
I AM NOT AVERY.
He doesn't try to pretend that he doesn't scan the newspapers for reportings of the Zodiac. He doesn't try to pretend that he doesn't occasionally wonder if throwing out all of his Zodiac files was the right thing to do.
I AM NOT AVERY.
Sitting on one of his couches, surrounded by empty bottles and still-burning cigarette butts, he tries to collect himself. He tries to convince himself that he can do this, that he can return to working free from any stigma or guilt.
I AM NOT AVERY.
(He can't.)
He drinks, and coughs. God damn it all to hell and back again. He looks at the lapel pin in his fingers, and, after the briefest moment of hesitation, throws it against the opposite wall.
I AM NOT AVERY.
(He cries, for the first time in years.
Rage, desperation, sadness.
He feels everything and nothing.
He knows he's not complete without a story.
He knows he won't function for long with one.)
Paul Avery falls asleep as the sun rises, surrounded by empty bottles, glasses, and ashes.
Lost on the floor, the lapel pin catches slivers of the sun.
I AM NOT AVERY.
