The Walls

This line of work, there are good days, and there are bad days.

Of course, the good days are just the bastard offspring of a bad day and payday. But that counts for something in my book. At least it keeps the snoops from the bank off my back. One less shoulder to look over.

But right now, right here, are the really bad days. I've got no leads on the Baltam case, despite a day of pen pushing. I've spent twenty-four hours trying to make some headway on Project Thompson. That means a day of shifting through files, paper work, accounts. A day of sitting in the darkened office, my only company the demons on my shoulder and the whisky bottle by my hand. Days like these, even the walls start to come after me. The office gets smaller and smaller, swallowed by shadow as the light of day fades. The walls creep up on my blind spot and whisper that they hate me.

Eventually I'll put the pen down, rub my fingers against my eyes, and fall asleep in the hard office chair. I know this as surely as I know the weekend is going to get bad. Bad like the M25 on Friday evening. But not yet. Not while the walls are whispering in my ears.

Here's to the good days. I've gotta be due a paycheck.