“It’s not like. Well, it’s not like we’re special…you know?”
Rory caved his head into his crossed arms and sighed. His words came out slurred and confused, trying to piece together thoughts that reoccured whenever he was heavily drunk or morosely melancholy. It just so happened that the two were never very far apart.
His thin frame stretched across the roof while suburbia lay quiet and indifferent below him. He kicked away the empty cans and continued speaking to the air, letting the wind carry away what he harbored inside for so long.
“I just don’t feel like we go anywhere. 9-5 job, pop a couple kids out, live till your anniversary, die old and unfulfilled. Everything’s just so messed up. I don’t want to end like that. I don’t. I feel like I was kicked out of a cookie cutter mold. I’m too bitter. Nobody likes a bitter cookie.”
He stared at the heavens, what little he could see from the blinding lamp posts. From his stupor he thought he saw a comet, or maybe just another dream, fluttering away.