The backyard of his house was wonderful this time of year. Well, technically, it was Claire's home, for he had built it as a gift to her. But, they were both trapped here in this hellhole, so it was his home just as much as it was hers. White flakes dusted the aged patio furniture and the ornate stone walkway that circled from the front of the house to the back. Jamie still remembered when it had been placed years and years before. His non-beating heart felt as if it were being torn from his body when the modern machines rolled across the grass to dig up the lawn. This was his masterpiece, and it was trashed by the new occupants. Jamie hadn't mourned for a second when the father fell down the stairs the winter after building the patio and died.
Sprawled across the ebony chaise in the living room, Jamie let out a slow, dejected sigh. His lanky right arm draped down on to the floor where he swirled a tumbler of scotch and soda slowly in a clockwise rotation. He had been this way for an hour or so. At least, that was what he thought. Time dragged along sloth-like nowadays. What was the purpose of waking up anymore, really? In a painfully slow manner, Jamie raised the glass to his lips and sipped it slowly. He was usually quite melodramatic when hungover, or rather, he was melodramatic when he believed he was hungover. He hadn't suffered a hangover in ages.
The pounding in his head threatened to burst his skull. With a loud grunt, Jamie sat himself up and pulled his knees to his chest. For a few seconds, the tycoon shoved his head between his knees to try and shelter his sensitive eyes from the sunlight. But he'd caught a glimpse of the snow laying in a thin layer on the yard outside and quickly looked up, all thoughts of a hangover gone. Like a child, Jamie draped his arms over the back of the chaise and rested his chin on his hands as he longingly looked outside. New York City would be beautiful with this snowfall. Well, the New York he remembered. A reminiscent smile crossed his lips, lingered for a little, and then faded. No use in crying over spilt milk, right? That was his father's mantra and it had been burned into Jamie's mind since he was a boy.
"Claire!" he suddenly shouted, not even sure if his wife was still in their condo. "I'm going out!" Why was he even saying it? It wasn't like she cared where he went, or when he went out. Besides, he couldn't really go any further than half a block or so. With his glass of scotch and soda in hand, Jamie stood and exited the condo. Slowly, he closed the door behind himself. She most likely would not believe him. He rarely even set foot on the other floors of the "Murder House". He hated that name. Murder House. It was a vulgar name for a place he loved so dearly. Sure, it had been the location of its fair share of deaths, but it made all of the occupants, even him, sound like morbid serial killers. It was certainly not the impression he wanted to leave on the world.
Walking softly, Jamie crossed the hall and rapped his knuckles against the door of the opposite condo. "Lil?" he called softly, turning his back to her door to watch in case Claire came out after him. "You in there...?"