<div align="center"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: arial;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;">---James Warren---</span></span></div><br/><div class="floatright">(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v296/rcburner/Characters/Cig-1.jpg)</div><br/>A stray cinder wavered in the cold night air, and the whole city seemed to hold its breath so as not to disturb its delicate moonlit dance.  Sporadic clusters of drink-addled Bostonians danced to yet another beat, stumbling and laughing and chatting as they maneuvered through the labyrinth of poorly planned streets, their voices fading away to nothing before they reached the rooftops where a single man stood and watched and waited.  Above him that lone spark of orange light twirled against an infinite expanse of black, a wisp of smoke trailing behind it like a comet.  Just when it seemed ready to join the stars staring silently from the heavens, at the very peak of its ascent, a sudden gust of wind cruelly snatched it from the sky, and the warm glow vanished.<br/><br/>On the other side of the country, an old man's heart shuddered, slowed, and died.<br/><br/>Blissfully ignorant, the man took another drag off the cigarette dangling from his lips.  The tip flared brightly, sending up wayward embers that blindly followed one another into oblivion, each fading faster than the last.  James Warren--for that was the man's name--contemplated them with an upturned brow.  He wondered, only half-jokingly, if dull flames dreamed of joining those great and unreachable masses of fire and gas called stars.  Their lives were short and unremarkable, brief seconds spent in a mad dash towards some impossible goal that they could never hope to reach.<br/><br/>"Those that burn the brightest burn out the fastest," he muttered with a wry smirk, bending the cigarette between his fingers and flicking the remains to the cement.  "That being the case, isn't it better not to burn at all?"<br/><br/>James' shoe made a satisfying noise as it snuffed out the still-smoldering end, like the edge of a dull axe ground against a whetstone.  An executioner's blade.  He laughed abruptly, jamming his hands in his coat pockets and making his way towards the rusted door that led back down into his musty apartment complex.<br/><br/>"Fuckin' morbid thoughts tonight.  Think living alone must be driving me stir crazy."<br/><br/><div align="center">-------------------------------------------------------------</div><br/>Everyone reacts differently to death.  There is no real pattern to it, and though psychologists may attach labels to the grieving process, categorizing each and every emotion with clinical detachment, it is not something so easily predicted on an<em>individual</em>basis.  It is not a matter of weakness or strength.  A stolidly built construction worker may be reduced to a quivering wreck, while a humble housewife takes the news with an expressionless mask, allowing the numb shock to overcome her from the inside.  Some may rage and scream, seething and blaming everyone within earshot, releasing their pain in an angry torrent.<br/><br/>And then there are those who seem to skip past all the stages at once, settling comfortably at<strong>Acceptance</strong>while casually ignoring and sealing away all the real problems to be dealt with at a later date--or more precisely, putting it off for as long as humanly possible while focusing on more<em>practical</em>concerns.<br/><br/>"Sherry!  'Nother round of drinks, on my good buddy...what did you say your name w-On my good buddy<em>Harry</em>here!"<br/><br/>The atmosphere in<em>The Velvet Lounge</em>was equal parts intoxicating and suffocating, and was not nearly as classy as its name might have otherwise suggested.  The only ones lounging were those that had passed out from too much alcohol or whatever else had been slipped in with it, but there was certainly more than enough velvet to blind the casual observer.  Unpleasant shades of blue, violent, pink, and some other horrifically repugnant hue that James had been trying to insist for the past ten minutes was wholly<em>outside</em>the color spectrum coated nearly every surface, from the tables and overstuffed seats to the drapery that hung overhead nearly as thickly as the smoke clotting the air.<br/><br/>Harry, the burly fellow seated across the way, was too far gone to argue otherwise, accepted the expensive addition to his bar tab with a dazed grin and an alarming loll of the head.<br/><br/>"Fantastic!  Never have I met a more upstanding<em>Harry</em>in my life!" James remarked, grinning from ear to ear.  He felt only slightly tipsy, having subtly managed to maintain only two drinks for the last hour or so to remain on top of his game, while the fawning people around him only grew increasingly pliable as the evening stretched on.<br/><br/>"Naaathan," the generously endowed woman at his left whined, believing utterly in the false name she'd been fed earlier, "Tell us more about th...that mansshion you're getting!"<br/><br/>"Yeah, tell us!  Doesh it have a shwimming pool, and a butler?" the more slightly-built woman at his right inquired with drunken enthusiasm.<br/><br/>"Ladies, ladies!" James exclaimed as modestly as his smarmy face could muster, his practiced hands dipping just a bit<em>too</em>low down their backs.  "I am not the sort to brag, especially not about any wealth that I may or may not be receiving!  And it's a<em>manor</em>, not a<em>mansion</em>.  Smaller, yet somehow more sophisticated."<br/><br/>"Doesh that mean it's worth a whole lot?"<br/><br/>"Something like that," he said, his charming smile twitching from momentary irritation.  "Alas, it's down in balmy San Fransisco!  Were that not the case, I would have been all too happy to give you both a thorough tour of its bedrooms."<br/><br/>They tittered and blushed as such women are wont to do, not the slightest trace of displeasure crossing their pretty, dullard faces.  James did not consider himself particularly skilled for being able to hook such easy targets.  All it took were the right words, the right attitude, and the right<em>look</em>.  It didn't so much matter what sort of company he managed to snare tonight, so long as he<em>had</em>them.<br/><br/>On the other coast in California the sun was still in the sky, overlooking old friends and close family of a dearly departed man that had served as James' father for nearly half of his childhood as they watched his coffin lower into the ground and listened faintly to heartfelt words spoken by those that had known him well.  James doubted his grandfather would be missing his absence, though the hazy, angered faces of his brothers floated around at the back of his consciousness like bothersome flies.<br/><br/>What did he care?  Grandfather was dead, but<em>he</em>was enjoying loud music, expensive drinks, and would undoubtedly be getting laid tonight.  He could not have prevented the death any better than them.  The old man was gone, and that was that.  Better to enjoy the perks of living than dwell on those who were already gone.<br/><br/>A bitter taste lingered on James' tongue, though not from the liquor.<br/><br/><div align="center">-------------------------------------------------------------</div><br/>His hand fumbled with the key that had been sent to him, and he glared at his hand until it stopped shaking.  It felt odd to be standing in front of the Manor.  There was a sort of uneasiness welling up in him, seeping in from the soles of his designer shoes where they planted him to the stone stairs.  He felt like a thief about to break into someone's house, a stranger wholly out of place and out of his element.  The air was too quiet and too clean, and the nostalgic atmosphere of naivety and innocence hanging over the neighborhood made James feel like some sort of unwelcome blemish to the suburban surroundings.<br/><br/>"A blemish with a damn fine face, at least," he said, jamming the key into the lock, opening the door with one bold movement, and stepping over the threshold as confidently as a king striding into his throne room.<br/><br/>"My, but this place does seem<em>familiar!</em>" he called out, straightening the collar of his gray flannel shirt and glancing about at the surroundings that he'd long-since shunned.  "Perhaps I've broken into a friend's house by mistake?"