The Weight of Quiet Regret: Solo story (Trigger Warnings listed in the first post)

[Marty James]

Trigger Warnings:
Depression and Anxiety
Alcoholism
Loss of a child
Divorce
Trauma and Emotional Abuse
Self-Destructive Behavior
Mental Health Treatment

The Weight of Quiet Regret playlist

(What this story is going to be about: Marty has lived his life in the shadows of his past, of his mistakes, and of his own mind. Haunted by regret, he has shut himself off from the world, drowning in alcohol and self-imposed isolation. He hits a new low in the face of danger. As well his cat goes missing. But when a moment of unexpected kindness leads to the return of his beloved cat, Thomas, something begins to shift.

As he takes the tentative steps toward healing, Marty faces the daunting task of confronting the demons he’s been running from for years. With the help of therapy, and a deeper understanding of his own worth, Marty begins to rebuild his life, piece by piece.

The Weight of Quiet Regret is a story about loss and redemption, about finding light in the darkest of places, and about the quiet but powerful journey of learning to love oneself again.)

”The Weight of Quiet Regret”

In a drunken haze, Marty James lay sprawled on the couch. His body sunk into the cushions as though they were swallowing him whole. In one hand, loosely held, was the bottle of whiskey he hadn’t bothered to cap. It teetered in his grasp, the amber liquid sloshing quietly against the glass, mocking him with its half-empty promise of solace. He stared blankly at the television. His gaze was out of focus. The colors flickering across his tired, bloodshot eyes. Though he wasn’t watching, and if you asked him he probably couldn't even tell you what is on. He hadn’t really watched anything in weeks. The TV was just background noise. A distraction to fill the silence of his hollow life.

The blinds were drawn, shutting out the world beyond. Dust motes floated in the slivers of light that managed to sneak their way in. Like the ghosts of the life he used to know. It was late morning, though you wouldn’t know it by the dim, gray light filtering into the room. It could’ve been midnight, for all Marty cared. Time was irrelevant in this place, in this moment. His life here held no meaning. The walls felt close, suffocating. At the same time, this small, cluttered apartment was the only space he could bear to exist in right now. The world was too hard to face. With how he felt, he couldn't bring himself to even fake happiness. At home there was none to judge him for being drunk before noon.

The smell of blood and stale takeout lingered in the air. It mingled with the bitter scent of whiskey and the musty odor of unwashed clothes. On the coffee table, empty blood bags sat precariously atop stacks of unopened mail and forgotten bills. Marty’s whole life seemed to exist within the confines of this cramped room, collapsing in on itself like a black hole, pulling him deeper into its void. Marty shuddered with the thought. There was no escape here, and truthfully, he didn’t want one. So lost within darkness, there was no light in sight at the end of any tunnels in his life.

Thomas, his orange tabby, sat curled in a ball on the couch beside him. The only warmth in an otherwise cold existence. The cat’s soft purring was steady, a quiet reassurance that he had at least something in his life outside of booze and self loathing. Thomas stretched lazily, then padded over to nudge Marty’s leg with his head. Marty glanced down at him, feeling a strange pang of guilt. The cat was always here, always waiting, always faithful.

“I don't deserve you, my friend. Yet you still stick around, huh?” Marty muttered, his voice hoarse from a night of drinking. He tried for a smile, but it came out twisted, bitter. “Yeah, you don’t have much of a choice, do you, buddy?” He chuckled, but it was a dry, humorless sound.

Thomas meowed, as if in agreement. So Marty reached out a hand and absently scratched behind the cat’s ear. The contact was a brief reprieve from the emptiness, but it was fleeting, like everything else. He sighed, his gaze drifting past the cat, landing on the shelf across the room.

There, sitting on the edge, was a framed photo of his ex wife Grace. His chest tightened just looking at it. The glass was smudged, fingerprints left behind from when he’d picked it up. Drunk and desperate, in the middle of the night when the thought of Grace was stronger than the liquor he drank to forget. He never cleaned it. Unable to bring himself to touch it again. It was a relic of another life, a reminder of everything he’d lost. Everything he’d destroyed.” She loved me once.” Marty whispered, as he looked down at Thomas.

Try as he might to avoid the picture, his eyes quickly returned to it. Grace. God, how long had it been since he’d seen her? Her smile in the picture was soft. Her brown eyes bright with love. A love he’d taken for granted. A love he’d wasted. He’d pushed her away, drowned in alcohol and his own damn stubborn pride. Their daughter, he didn’t even get a chance to know her. He didn’t get to see her grow. Marty felt the familiar burn of regret coil in his chest. Sometimes it felt like the feeling lived there. Searing its way through him like poison, that there was no cure for.

Does she even think about me anymore? he wondered, as he took another long drink from the bottle. Liquor dripped down the side of his mouth as he pulled the bottle away. Or has she moved on, erased me from her life like I never existed? He couldn’t blame her if she had. He wasn’t worth remembering. Marty didn't think he was worth anything. He’d driven her away, after all, just like he drove everyone else away. ” They are all better off. “ His words a drunken slur, barely decipherable.

He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the thoughts, but they came flooding in anyway, unrelenting. It was my fault, wasn’t it? The drinking… the distance… ” I failed them all. “ He squeezed his eyes tighter, the whiskey bottle trembling in his grip. What would our daughter have been like? Would she have had Grace's eyes? My smile?

The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint murmur of the TV and Thomas’s rhythmic purring. Marty stared at the ceiling now. His head rested against the back of the couch. The drink was still in his hand, though he no longer cared about the burn as it slid down his throat, each time he drank from the bottle. What was the point of it all, really? Even if he got up, even if he walked outside, it was the same world waiting for him. He would be the same. The same mess he’d made of his life, the same suffocating weight pressing down on his chest.

A knock at the door startled him, pulling him from his spiraling thoughts. He didn’t move. Just sat there, staring blankly over at the door, waiting for the sound to go away. Praying that whoever it was just went away. It was probably the landlord, maybe a neighbor. Someone with some petty grievance or a bill he’d forgotten to pay. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to answer. After a moment, the knocking stopped, and he heard the soft shuffle of footsteps retreating down the hall.

For a moment he felt a brief sense of relief. He sighed, letting the tension slip from his shoulders. Alone again. Just the way he wanted it.

He raised the bottle to his lips once more, taking another long swig, letting the warmth of the alcohol numb him further. With his free hand Marty took up the remote to shut off the TV. It took him a moment, but once he faced the remote in the right direction the room held a new level of quiet, the only sound the faint purring of Thomas, still nestled at his side. Outside, the world moved on without him. Inside, Marty James drowned, slowly and quietly, in the life he had built out of broken dreams and shattered promises. ”I brought this on myself.” He muttered under his drunken breath.

The light from the window barely touched the room, thin beams straining to break through the closed blinds. It was a sad thing, Marty thought, that the sun still bothered trying to shine. It had no business here, in this place, in his life. I'm nothing but a black cloud. He thought.

Marty stared at the blinds, thinking about how long it had been since he’d opened them, since he’d let any light in. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d stepped outside. He figured what was there for him, anyway? He’d tried to outrun the ghosts of his past, but they were always waiting. Always just behind him, no matter how far he fell or how deep he sank.

What’s the point of trying to fix any of this? he thought, his grip on the whiskey bottle tightening. I’m too far gone. It’s too late to change.

And so he sat there, wallowing in self-pity, letting the weight of his mistakes bury him deeper into the couch. deeper into the darkness he’d come to know so well. The world outside might as well have been a distant dream, one he no longer had any place in. To Marty, there was no place for him. In his mind, he was nothing but complete ruin.

To be continued...

[Marty James]

The lack of booze was usually the only thing that got Marty James out of his apartment. The low hum of conversation barely reached his ears as he sat at the bar. Lost in the familiar haze that whiskey brought him. The pub, dimly lit and worn from decades of use. It was like a sanctuary to Marty. Dark, and quiet, it felt detached from the rest of the world. The soft flicker of candles and the scuffed wood floors gave the old place an air of timelessness. For him stepping through its doors meant stepping out of time itself. The kind of place where nothing mattered. Where the weight of life could be set aside. If only for a while.

Marty glanced at the amber liquid in his glass. The man spent a lot of his time lately looking at a glass. This one was only half empty, but it had already done its job. Numbing the edges of his thoughts. Making everything feel a little less sharp. He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling lately that this place, this bar, was the last place that felt real to him. The rest of the world, the people, the memories, they seemed to blur into something distant, and unreachable. Like he was living outside of it all. The truth was, the numbness he craved wasn’t something the whiskey could fully give him. Not really. It was just a temporary shield. Every time the haze wore off, the pain was still there. Sharper than ever.

He took another slow sip. His gaze drifting to the jukebox in the corner. A song played softly. Its melancholy notes filling the spaces between the clinks of glasses and the murmured conversations. It was an old song. Something from a time long past. A time when he used to believe life could still be good. Before everything fell apart. Before Grace… before their daughter.

The thought of them twisted in his chest like a knife. He quickly looked away. Forcing himself to focus on the bar in front of him. Anything to stop the memories from flooding back. He couldn’t let himself go there. Not tonight. Not in public.

Cato, the bartender a human Marty had inthralled years ago, stood behind the counter, wiping down a glass. His movements were slow, methodical. As if he had all the time in the world.They didn’t talk much these days, but there was a kind of understanding between them. An unspoken acknowledgment that they were both carrying more than they let on.

“You’ve been in here a lot more lately,” Cato said, his voice breaking through the quiet. The man looked worried, and Marty knew Cato probably cared more about him than anyone in this city.

Marty didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He knew where this conversation was headed. It was always the same when Cato started talking like this. Like he could see straight through Marty’s carefully constructed walls. Maybe he could.“Got nowhere else to be,” Marty muttered, his fingers tightening around the glass.

Cato raised an eyebrow. His sharp gaze cutting through the dim light. “Maybe. But I’ve been around you long enough to know when you're hiding from something.”

Hiding. The word hung in the air. It felt heavier than Marty was ready to admit. He wanted to scoff at the man. To shrug it off like it didn’t matter, but the truth gnawed at him. I’m not hiding, he told himself. I’m surviving. Just getting through each day the only way I know how.

But was he? Or was he just… waiting? Waiting for something to change. Waiting for the end. Waiting for the pain to stop.

He took a long drink. The whiskey burning as it went down. “I’m not hiding,” he said, as if trying to convince himself as well Cato. His voice quieter than he intended. “Just passing the time.”

Cato’s eyes didn’t leave him. He set the glass down and leaned on the bar. He got close, Cato had never been afraid to enter Marty's personal space. His expression calm but serious. “Passing the time until what?”

Marty’s stomach clenched. He stared at the liquid in his glass. He could not meet the others eyes, instead swirling the whiskey it in slow circles as if the answer might be hiding at the bottom. “Until it’s all over, I guess.” Shrugging his shoulders, he finally looked from his glass to Cato.

The words felt heavy as they left his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say that. He didn’t like thinking about the end. Not really. The truth was, some days, it felt like the only thing left. Like the end was the only thing that could take the weight off his chest. The only way to stop the constant ache in his soul.

The end never came. In the quiet, dark moments like this, he wasn’t sure if he even wanted it to.

Cato’s voice was soft, but there was a sharpness to it. Like he was trying to cut through Marty’s defenses. “Thing is, it doesn’t just ‘get over.’ Not unless you deal with it. Otherwise, it follows you. Forever.”

The words hit harder than Marty expected. He felt them sink into his chest. As if they cling to his soul, if he even still had one. Each one wrapping around the guilt he’d been carrying for years. The guilt he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried to drown it. Forever. The idea of it made his stomach turn. He didn’t want to face that. He couldn’t.

He forced a laugh. Though there was no humor in it.“You sound like a damn self-help book.”

Cato chuckled, but it was a sound filled with knowing. “Maybe. But there’s truth in it. Doesn’t matter how many years go by. How much you drink. Running from it won’t change a damn thing.”

Marty’s grip tightened on the glass, his knuckles close to turning white. What do you know? he wanted to say. What do you know about carrying this? But the words wouldn’t come. Because deep down, he knew Cato was right. That scared the hell out of him.

He stared into his whiskey, again. He barely knew himself anymore. Tired, broken, and lost. A man who had finally let the past consume him. Marty had let the guilt eat away at everything good in his life. Grace deserved better. The people once in his life deserved better, Marty told himself. Yet, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from spiraling further into the darkness.

His jaw clenched as Cato’s words sank deeper. Pulling at something raw inside him. “And what if I don’t want to deal with it?” Marty asked, his voice low. The anger bubbling beneath the surface. What if I can’t?

Cato’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then you’ll carry it with you. Every day. And it’ll weigh you down. More and more. Until one day, you won’t be able to move anymore.”

Marty swallowed hard. The weight of those words settling in his chest like a stone. He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Because he knew, in some part of him that he wasn’t ready to admit, that Cato was right. He’d been carrying this for so long, he didn’t even remember what it felt like to truly be free of it. The worst part was, he didn’t know how to put it down.

The silence stretched between them. Thick and heavy. Cato didn’t push any further. He just went back to wiping down the bar, giving Marty the space to sit with his thoughts. Sit he did, the words echoing in his mind, refusing to let go.

How do I deal with it? Marty thought, his chest tightening with the weight of everything he’d tried so hard to bury. How do I face what I’ve done over the years?

He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever know. All he knew was that the guilt was suffocating. No amount of alcohol could drown it. That didn't stop him from trying.

For now, all he could do was drink. Drink and try to forget. Even if it never worked.

But somewhere, deep down, Cato’s words lingered. Like a seed planted in the back of his mind. You can’t run forever.

Someday, he’d have to stop. Someday, he’d have to face it.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he drank.

—

Out of the corner of his eye, Marty noticed someone slip onto the stool next to him. Joe, another regular, a guy who had the kind of energy that made him stand out in a place like this, ordered a beer with a casual wave to Cato.

Joe glanced over at Marty, who gave a half-smile, more out of habit than anything. "Tough night?" Joe asked, raising his eyebrow. His voice carrying that easy-going sarcasm that Marty could recognize from a mile away.

"You could say that," Marty replied. His voice low but calm. “But I’ve seen worse.”

Joe snorted softly, taking a sip of his beer, after Cato set the glass bottle before the other vampire."Same here. But hey, look at us. Two miserable souls in a bar on a Friday night. At least we're consistent."

Marty chuckled, leaning back slightly. "Consistency’s all some of us have left."

Joe’s eyes wandered briefly around the room before landing back on Marty. “You know, I’ve got a dilemma of my own. Might be the drink talking, but…” Joe shrugged, running a hand through his hair. The mans hand lingering at the back of his neck before it joined the other that held his beer. Joe took a breath and then just let it all out. “I’m in love with my best friend. And, yeah, I’m fairly sure she’s interested in someone else.”

Marty tilted his head. His old charm creeping back into his voice. A shadow of the man he used to be. "Best friend, huh? Always the tricky ones. So… what’s stopping you from telling her?"

Joe smirked, almost as if he knew Marty was going to ask that. “Besides the soul-crushing fear of rejection? Oh, nothing much.”

Marty gave a soft laugh, shaking his head. "That’s the kind of thinking that’ll leave you sitting in bars like this for the next ten years or more. Wondering ‘what if.’" He paused, taking a slow sip from his glass before continuing. "Let me guess. She’s smart, probably tougher than she looks. A bit of an edge to her. And you’ve been dancing around this thing for a while now.”

Joe’s lips quirked up in a lopsided grin. “Yeah, something like that. Since the first grade, of I'm being honest. Guess you’ve been around long enough to spot the signs, huh?”

Marty shrugged. A flicker of something wistful crossing his face. “I’ve seen it all. Hell, lived it too. Let me tell you something though. If you don’t shoot your shot, someone else will. Trust me, the regret of not saying anything? It’s heavier than you think."

Joe raised an eyebrow, his voice playful. Though there was a hint of something deeper underneath. "Since when did I come here for life advice from the whiskey philosopher?”

Marty smirked, that old roguish charm shining through for a moment. "Hey, you brought it up. But if I’m being honest…" he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice, “you don’t look like the type who’s gonna sit back and let her slip through your fingers."

Joe’s smile widened. Though his sarcasm never left. “You sure about that, man? I mean, maybe I’m just here to watch you brood all night.”

A sober Marty James might have thought the man was flirting with him. He gave Joe a once-over, raising his glass in mock salute. "Nah, you’re too pretty for that."

Joe laughed, but there was something about Marty’s words that hit deeper. He took a breath, his bravado softening. "Alright, alright. So what would you do in my shoes, huh? Just go up to her, lay it all on the line?”

Marty’s expression softened for a moment. The weight of his own regrets flickered behind his eyes. "Yeah. Life’s too short to keep all that locked up inside. Tell her. The worst that happens? She says she doesn't feel the same way. But at least you’ll know. You won’t carry that question around like a damn anchor.”

Joe considered that, staring at his drink for a second before nodding. "You’re probably right. Annoying, but right."

Marty chuckled. "Story of my life."

Joe stood, finishing his beer and giving Marty a lingering look. "Thanks for the advice. Maybe you’re not just the brooding type after all."

Marty gave a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but carried sincerity. “Good luck, kid.” He called Joe a kid, as it was a long running joke between the two.

Joe smirked. His voice laced with sarcasm but held a softer tone beneath. “You know I’m not a kid, but thanks, old man.”

As Joe turned to leave, Marty’s gaze followed him. A mix of amusement and reflection tugging at the corners of his mouth. Maybe the young man had a shot, maybe not. At least one of them was trying to make things right.

Marty took another slow sip of his drink, staring at the amber liquid. It wasn’t much, but the conversation left a small spark inside him. A reminder of the man he used to be. The man he could still try to become.

And that, for now, was enough.
---

Later that evening Marty took a midnight stroll, a drunken stumble was more like it. It was a calm night in the city. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of damp grass. The park was nearly empty, save for a few flickering streetlights and the occasional rustle in the trees. Marty had found himself wandering. His mind had been restless, and walking sometimes helped him think. As well the park was on his way home from the pub. Something about the way the moonlight stretched across the empty playground and the distant hum of the city in the background brought him a strange sense of peace.

Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, Marty meandered along the pathway. The soles of his shoes crunching softly against the gravel. His thoughts were on everything and nothing all at once. When a sudden noise, a sharp shuffle, caught his attention. Marty stopped. Glancing toward a cluster of bushes nearby. He squinted, catching a glimpse of something... small, and fuzzy.

“A raccoon?” Marty muttered, eyebrows raised. He watched as the creature, with its ringed tail and small, nimble hands, emerged from the bushes. The creature pausing in front of him as if sizing him up.

The raccoon stared at Marty, almost expectantly. Like it knew him. Its dark, beady eyes twinkled with a sense of recognition that made Marty hesitate. Questioning the reality of the moment.

“Well, aren’t you a bold little guy,” Marty chuckled, crouching slightly to get a better look at the critter. Surprisingly he maintained his balance. “Most raccoons just bolt when they see people, but you…” Marty tilted his head. It felt like the world was swaying. “You look like you’re about to ask me for something.” Am I hallucinating? he wondered.

The raccoon tilted its head in response. Its little paws shifting on the ground. It took a step closer, nose twitching as if it were trying to get a better read on Marty.

“Hey, wait a minute…” Marty squinted, suddenly feeling a strange familiarity with the creature’s demeanor. “I swear I’ve seen that look before.” He leaned back, to sit in the grass, scratching his head. “You’re not just any raccoon, are you? You’ve got… I don’t know, attitude.”

The raccoon chittered softly. Almost like a low chuckle. It padded closer, coming right up to Marty’s shoes. Without hesitation, it pawed at the cuff of Marty’s jeans. Like it was trying to get his attention. Like it knew him.

Marty couldn’t help but laugh. “What are you doing, buddy? You trying to rob me? I don’t have any snacks on me.”

The raccoon responded by giving Marty’s shoe another determined tug. Then circling him with a kind of impatient energy, like it was trying to lead him somewhere.

Marty’s curiosity piqued. “You’re a weird one, aren’t you?” He looked around the empty park, as he stood up and then back at the raccoon. “Alright, fine. Lead the way, but if you’re planning some kind of raccoon ambush, I’m gonna be seriously pissed off.” He said smirking just a little, Marty couldn't help it.

The raccoon scurried ahead, stopping just a few feet away, waiting for Marty to follow. Marty shook his head, his unsteady steps quickening to catch up. He hadn’t expected his night to turn into a strange raccoon-led adventure, but here he was.

After a few moments of walking, the raccoon paused again, turning to look at Marty. It was as if it was trying to communicate something. Something more than just a simple animal instinct.

They stood near the sandbox. Using an abandoned plastic toy shovel the raccoon spelled out three letters, in the sand, J O E.

And then it hit Marty.

“Wait a minute…” Marty stopped in his tracks. His eyes narrowing in thought. “ Joe?! You're the guy from the bar?!” Marty laughed, shaking his head. “Nah, that’s crazy. But I do know some vampires are capable of taking an animal form…..”

The raccoon, as if in response to Marty’s musing, raised a paw and gave him a little wave. A raccoon wave. Marty blinked, not quite believing what he was seeing.

“You’re messing with me, right?” Marty crouched down, got down on one knee, face to face with the raccoon. “Are you trying to tell me something? Or are you just screwing with my head? Because it’s late and I’ve had a long night, and a lot to drink.”

The raccoon chittered again. This time more insistent. As if confirming Marty’s wild theory.

Marty stood up, passing a hand across his face. A mix of amusement and disbelief washing over him. I'm fucked up tonight, Marty thought. “Okay, either I’m going nuts, or you’re the weirdest raccoon I’ve ever met.”

The raccoon’s eyes sparkled, almost like it was laughing at him.

Marty grinned, shaking his head. Still held in a state of disbelief. “Alright, Joe the Raccoon, if that’s even your real name. I’m gonna let you off easy tonight, but if I find out you’re just a regular raccoon playing mind games with me, we’re gonna have words.”

The raccoon seemed satisfied with that and gave one final, cheeky chitter before turning and trotting off into the night. Leaving Marty standing there, chuckling to himself.

As the raccoon disappeared into the darkness, Marty stuffed his hands back in his pockets and began his stumble walk home again. A small smile lingering on his face.

“Only me,” he muttered under his drunken breath. “Only I would end up having a midnight conversation with a raccoon.”

[Marty James]

Flashback from when Marty James first found Thomas.

The late night air was cool. It felt crisp against Marty Jame's skin as he walked down the quiet street. It was one of those nights where the city felt oddly still. A peaceful kind of lull after the noise of the bar. He’d had a few drinks. His mind was far from sharp, humming along with thoughts about the little things in life. As he rounded the corner toward his apartment, he heard a faint sound. So small that he almost dismissed it. A soft, pitiful meow drifted up from somewhere in the shadows near a parked car.

Marty paused, scanning the dimly lit street. He crouched down on his knees, leaning his head to the side. The sound came again, more insistent this time. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. There, underneath the car, was a tiny orange kitten.

“Hey there, little guy,” Marty said softly. His voice is a mix of curiosity and amusement. He knelt down further and gently reached out a hand. Marty half expected the kitten to run. Instead, the tiny creature padded forward. Its big green eyes locked onto Marty’s as if it had been waiting for him all night.

“Well, aren’t you brave, and adorable.” Marty murmured with a chuckle. He scooped the kitten up into his arms. The kitten immediately snuggled into Marty’s chest, a soft purr vibrating against his shirt. Marty’s heart melted on the spot. “Guess I’m taking you home, huh?”

He stood, holding the kitten carefully as he continued toward his apartment. But then he remembered, he had no idea how to take care of a cat. Food, litter, a bed, none of it. The convenience store on the corner was still open. Its neon lights flickering in the distance like a beacon.

Inside, Marty scanned the shelves. The kitten perched on his shoulder, snuggled against his neck. Its tiny claws gripping his jacket like it had no plans to leave. He grabbed a bag of dry kitten food, a little tin of wet food, and a box of litter. When his eyes landed on a fuzzy toy mouse with a bell attached, he grinned and tossed it into his basket.

As he approached the checkout, the store clerk gave him an amused look. “Got yourself a new friend?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Marty said, scratching the kitten under the chin. “Found him on my walk home. I think he chose me.”

The clerk smiled. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a keeper.”

I sure did, Marty thought.

Once home, Marty set the kitten down and got to work. He filled a small dish with food, and set up a makeshift litter box in a cake pan he never used. He even spread an old towel in the corner of the room as a temporary bed. The kitten didn’t seem interested in any of it. It just followed Marty everywhere he went. Its tiny paws tapped softly across the floor as if it had already decided this place was home.

Marty opened the bag with the toy mouse and tossed it across the room. The kitten’s eyes lit up. It darted after it with surprising speed. The kitten pounced on the toy and rolled around in delight. Marty laughed, a deep, genuine sound that echoed through the apartment. Marty watched as the kitten attacked the mouse like it was the most important battle of its life.

“So, what should I call you?” Marty asked, leaning back against the couch. The kitten paused its play and looked up at him. Its head tilted in that adorable, inquisitive way.

Marty thought for a moment. “How about Thomas? Yeah, that suits you. Thomas it is.”

The kitten let out a tiny meow. As if approving of the name. Thomas quickly went back to batting the toy around the room. Marty couldn’t stop smiling. This little ball of fur had brought a lightness to his apartment that he hadn’t realized was missing.

After a while, the kitten wore itself out. Marty picked him up and settled onto the couch again. The kitten curled up on his chest, purring softly as it drifted off to sleep. Marty felt a warmth spread through him. A quiet sense of peace. He hadn’t expected to bring home a kitten tonight, but it felt right. Like maybe this was exactly what he needed.

As his eyelids grew heavy, Marty glanced down at Thomas. The cat who was now fast asleep. One tiny paw resting against his neck. Marty smiled, running a gentle hand over the kitten’s fur.

“Welcome home, buddy,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

That night, for the first time in what felt like ages, Marty fell asleep with a smile on his face. The soft purring of his new companion lulling him into a peaceful slumber.

---
Present time

The apartment was still. The kind of stillness that settled after too many nights spent in a haze. Dust hung in the air. It caught in the faint slivers of the light of the sunset that managed to slip past the blinds covering the windows. The place had once been clean, functional, even. Now, it was a wasteland of half-empty bottles and discarded clothes. The shelves were cluttered with forgotten things. A cracked picture frame, a broken watch. Books were everywhere that hadn’t been touched in ages. The coffee table, too, was a mess. A graveyard of junk.

Thomas, the orange cat, sat perched on the windowsill behind the blinds. His sleek fur glistened faintly in the dim light. He was the only thing in the room that seemed to have any life. His green eyes flicked over to the bedroom door as a groan broke the silence.

Marty stirred beneath a crumpled blanket, tangled up in his own restless sleep. The room was dark, heavy with the smell of stale alcohol and neglect. His hand fumbled for the alarm clock on the nightstand. As he shut it off he knocked over a near empty bottle in the process. He winced at the sound. Sitting up slowly, his head was pounding like it was filled with gravel.

“God…” Marty muttered. His voice is rough from disuse. He rubbed his face with both hands. His fingers dragging across days-old stubble. “What time is it?”

His apartment answered in its usual silence. The clock on his night stand ticked sluggishly. Reminding him that time was still moving even if he wasn’t.

With another groan, Marty swung his legs over the side of the bed. He slowly stood up, his body aching from too many hours spent in the same position. He stumbled into the small, dingy bathroom, flicking on the light. The fluorescent bulb buzzed angrily before flickering to life, casting a harsh light on the cracked tiles and water-stained walls.

Marty leaned over the sink, turning the faucet on to splash cold water on his face. It was an old routine. One of the few he could still manage. He stared at the shattered mirror above the sink. He didn't need to see himself to know water dripped from his chin. His eyes were hollow, bloodshot, and framed by deep, purple shadows. His hair, longer than it used to be, hung in unruly strands over his forehead. He’d always been clean-shaven when he was human. Grace had liked him that way.

Now, though… what did it matter?

He leaned closer over the sink, he felt like a stranger. He knew his complexion was still unnaturally smooth, youthful even, thanks to the curse of immortality. The darkness in his eyes, the weariness etched into his expression, that was all him.

“Still here,” Marty whispered to himself. His voice was barely audible. He wasn’t sure whether he was surprised or disappointed by the fact. Probably both.

He dried his face with a towel and made his way into the kitchen. The apartment felt colder, emptier in the evening. The silence was oppressive, wrapping around him like a second skin. He glanced at Thomas's automatic feeder and noticed the cat had already eaten. He shuffled toward the counter, where an old coffee pot sat stained with neglect. The buttons had worn away. The glass chipped on one side, but it still worked well enough. Once the coffee was made he poured himself a cup. The dark liquid steamed faintly. Marty leaned against the counter, staring at the floor as he slipped his coffee.

Thomas meowed softly and leapt onto the counter. His lithe body landed without a sound. He rubbed his head against Marty’s arm, purring softly.

“At least you still need me, huh?” Marty murmured, reaching out to scratch the cat behind the ears. Thomas purred louder, his warmth grounding Marty, even if just for a moment.

He took a slow sip of the coffee. Its bitter taste does little to wake him. He wasn’t sure if anything could wake him at this point. The days had become a blur. One bleeding into the next. All the same. All spent in the same suffocating cycle of avoidance.

Marty’s gaze drifted to the corner of the room where the old picture of Grace was now cracked and lay face down on the floor. He hadn’t picked it up. Maybe It was better that way. Better not to look at the face that haunted him. Grace’s smile. The soft curve of her lips. That life was gone. Buried under the weight of too many mistakes, too much guilt.

He sighed and set the coffee cup down. His eyes glazed over. What had he become? A shell. A shadow of the man he used to be. Not dead, not alive, just… here.

For a moment, he thought about the bottle of whiskey still sitting on the coffee table. The thought was tempting. More tempting than it should have been. The weight of it, of the same routine. The same drowning was too much right now. Not yet, he lied to himself. Maybe later.

He took another sip of coffee, his gaze drifting to the window where the blinds remained tightly shut, blocking out the world. It had been days since he’d opened them. The sunlight felt like a distant memory. Something that belonged to another life. A life he wasn’t sure he deserved anymore.

Thomas jumped down from the counter, curling up on a chair nearby. His soft purring is the only sound in the room. Marty stared at him, feeling the familiar ache in his chest. What are you even still doing here? he thought, his eyes following the rise and fall of the cat’s small body. What am I doing here?

He stood there for a long moment, feeling the quiet settle back in, heavier than before. The loneliness, the guilt, it clung to him like a second skin. Suffocating and inescapable. There was nothing to be done about it. Not today. Maybe not ever.

With a heavy sigh, Marty turned away from the counter and grabbed his coat from where it had been tossed over a chair. The liquor store was open, and he needed something stronger than coffee to get through the rest of the night. He felt the weight of his keys in his pocket, a familiar heaviness. For a moment, he wondered if he should just stay inside. Just wait it out.

But the pull of the routine, the mindless motion of going through the night with only half a bottle was stronger than his hesitation. Stronger than the voice in the back of his mind that whispered what’s the point?

Marty grabbed his wallet and headed for the door. Thomas lifted his head, watching him silently as he left. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing the apartment in its quiet, lifeless state once again.