The end of the world doesn't seem too bad, right? There's no more good ; no more evil. Everyone gets to rest now : without the weight of the world on their shoulders ; without the crushing anxiety of life ; without the fear of what could happen next. No more irrational behaviour. Death, poverty, famine, hate - they'll all cease to exist. In fact, the end of the world would be more of a gift. That way everyone can live in peace in whatever comes after death.

James Forester contemplates this as he places the burning cigarette close to his lips. He inhales that stale smoke that burns his lungs. It's bittersweet, the way he craves something that's killing him with each breath. Somewhere deep down, he enjoys that. If the cigarette's what takes him, then he'll be lucky it wasn't something worse. Each deadly breath finds him sucking that smoke like it's a lifeline - ironic - and he chokes it down with a cough.

It's a rainy night in the Chicagoan suburbs. James has to shelter the cigarette with his left hand so it doesn't get wet. There's nothing to complain about though : James loves nights like these, where the rain falls down in glistening sheets, battering of rooftops and tarmac, determined to diminish everything in its path. Oh, and tbe emptiness of the streets (save for the odd car that bravely splashes through the downpour), scarse illuminated by the golden glow of the streetlights. James avoids them at all cost - it's better to not be seen.

These nights don't remain for long. By tomorrow, the hustle and bustle picks up, and people make their way down the streets in a flurry of rushed bodies and stressed minds. James knows it's best to relish in these moments before they're gone.

He leans against the wall in his black, sodden hoodie and sucks in another breath of smoke. He doesn't bother with a hood, so his curly hair is soaked as the rain pours down his face. It doesn't matter if he's ill tomorrow, he's lucky there even is a tomorrow.

The band doesn't like his personality all that much. They think he's doing it on purpose, to piss them off. He knows he's only there because he's got a good voice. Tony says he needs to take better care of himself, but James doesn't care. None of them care. If they did, James wouldn't be outside, soaked to his boxers on a Friday night.

It's not their fault, though. James isn't the type of person one would want to be friends with anyway. He's not a people person. That's why he doesn't have friends, and only sees the band when it's necessary. That's also why he's ignoring the phone vibrating violently in his pocket. It's probably his mom, he never picks up but she doesn't stop trying. James wishes she would. It's been like that for six months now.

Six months since he walked out of home to pursue a music career. To join a band that didn't give two shits about him. To live in a crappy apartment that's falling apart. To a life that feels like it's in black and white.

After twenty minutes, he gives in, and checks his phone. Within seconds, the screen is soaked and water is sloshing of the sides like a waterfall. He can barely make out what the name says, so he throws the cigarette onto the flooded sidewalk, and clicks the first name on the list.

"Where the hell are you?"  The voice says. It's crackly, and hard to hear over the pattering and the thumpering of the rain.

"Why do you care?"  James snaps into the phone.

"Because mom is pissed." Ah, Cassie, James' older, more responsible sister. "She keeps calling you and you never answer." Then a pause and what seems like a sigh. "Gran died yesterday, Jamie. The funeral's on Thursday. Mom's convinced you'll come home, but I know you'll disapoint her. You always do." There's another pause now, this time longer, as if expecting a reply that James won't give. "Fuck you, you piece of shit - "

James smashes his finger into the hang up button. He's heard it all a million times before, through endless voicemails and accidental pickups. Apparently "I'm fine" isn't enough to satsify them. They're angry, and they have every right to be. He honestly doesn't see why they care so much - they didn't care when he was coming home drunk at three in the morning, so shouldn't they be happy he's actually doing something with his life? Even if it is a failing band that doesn't even make enough money to avoid the alcohol and cigarettes he relies to heavily on.

He doesn't know why he's like this. The rest of the family's so composed. His Mom blamed it on the bandmates, but they're barely even friends to him (he's not even sure he knows their names). The truth is, he only went with them to Chicago to get away from his life. He thought that if he gets away, he'd feel less guilty. Now, he just blames himself for everything else. Mostly the bands failure. He understands why they hate him and probably wish he'd just fuck off. And now Gran's dead, and he's a disapointment.

So James does what James does best. He goes back to his apartment, masturbates, and passes out drunk on the moth eaten mattress in the back room that doesn't even qualify as a bedroom.