Kowalski slid into the booth opposite Jonah, his bulk crowding the space. Chen stood at the edge of the booth, his arms crossed, blocking Jonah's exit. "I don't know who the fuck you think you're talking to, but you've got a lot of nerve showing your face in here, Creed," Kowalski said, his voice a low rumble. Jonah took a slow, deliberate breath, refusing to be baited. "It's a free country, Kowalski. Last I checked." "Not for disgraced cops who make the rest of us look bad," Kowalski leaned forward, his face turning ruddy. "You're not welcome here. Finish your piss-water and get the fuck out. Now." The waitress arrived with his bourbon, placing it on the table with a trembling hand before retreating. Jonah wrapped his fingers around the heavy glass, the smooth, cool weight a familiar comfort. He looked from Kowalski's angry face to Chen's impassive one. He gave a small, humorless smile. "Tell you what," he said, his voice deceptively calm. "I'm going to finish this drink. And then I'm going to leave." He paused, letting his gaze turn as hard as frozen steel. "But if you're still sitting here when I'm done, I'm going to break that crooked nose of yours. And you," he flicked his eyes to Chen, "are going to have to explain to Internal Affairs why you watched it happen." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a gruff whisper, a promise of pure violence. "I'm not the guy. And this is not the night, motherfucker." Kowalski hesitated, the bluster in his eyes replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. He knew Jonah's reputation. He glanced up at Chen for support, but Chen gave a barely perceptible shake of his head and took a half-step back, away from the booth. The threat was credible. Jonah held Kowalski's gaze for another long second, then leaned back, the immediate danger having passed. He lifted the glass, chugged the entire four fingers of bourbon in one long, burning swallow, and slammed the empty glass down on the table with a crack that made Kowalski flinch. He stood up, his movements fluid and precise. As he passed Chen, he drove his shoulder hard into the other man's chest, a deliberate, contemptuous act of dominance. Chen stumbled back a step, catching himself on a nearby table, his face a mask of shock and anger. But he didn't retaliate. Jonah didn't look back. He threw his full weight into the heavy wooden door. It flew open, the hydraulic closer groaning in protest, and crashed against the exterior brick wall with a sharp boom that was louder than a gunshot in the sudden silence of the bar, the only other sound the jukebox with Johnny Cash's voice authoritatively singing about God cutting men down. He stalked into the suffocating humidity of the Houston night, the burn of the whiskey in his throat a pale imitation of the rage burning in his soul. Johnny was right. God's gonna cut him down.
He walked home alone. Then the whispers came. They were louder now, mocking, ancient, full of a glee that curdled the blood. He could feel them slithering through the cracks in his soul, pulling at the threads of his sanity. "Leave me alone," he whimpered, his voice a ragged plea. The whispers laughed. A raw, primal scream of pure frustration tore from his throat. He threw his head back and bellowed at the indifferent, hazy sky, at the silent houses, at the entire goddamn universe. "JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!" His voice echoed in the unnatural quiet, a raw wound in the fabric of the night. The whispers paused. For a heartbeat, maybe two, blessed silence. Then they erupted. Not whispers anymore, but full-throated laughter, high and nasty, like a hundred shrieking imps cackling at his misery. "What am I even doing here!? What the fuck do you want from me, huh!?" He kicked a metal trash can into the street. It wasn't enough. The laughter escalated, delighted and vicious. "FUCK YOU!" He screamed into the disinterested night. He punched a brick wall, the wet crunch of his knuckles exploding with pain that—for one beautiful second—was louder than the whispers. Then the mental noise crashed back in. Defeated, he staggered back toward his condo, a man running from a battle already lost.
He grabbed the half-empty bourbon from his nightstand and upended it. It wasn't enough. He swept the orange pill bottles onto the floor and dropped to his knees in the dark, fumbling until his fingers found the ones he wanted. First, the Trazodone. The VA's boilerplate solution for a soul in freefall. Then, the one he was really after. Seroquel. The chemical sledgehammer. A black hole in a little orange bottle. This wasn't for rest. This was for annihilation. He shook a handful of pills into his palm—four, five, a mix of both, he didn't know or care—and washed them down with the last fiery dregs from the bottle. A toxic, life-threatening cocktail designed for annihilation.
