Harvey stood before the display of liquor with an expression of concern plastered on his countenance. The cart beside him stood piled him with enough food and drink for an army or, in his case, a house full of mooching ghosts. That was a rude way to put it, he knew, but Harvey couldn't help but grow angry every time they sent him out here. The cashiers would shoot glances at him every time, for they knew his face and had it memorized. Perhaps they though he was running a cult of some sort and was supplying his followers with sustenance. Instead, he was trying to ease the burden of the eternal entrapment his fellow borders were cursed with. They all knew ghosts had no need for food, but they still asked for it. Perhaps it eased the pain of never leaving the "afterlife". Harvey knew not the reason, nor did he wish to know. As long as they were happy, he was happy. He had made a promise when he inherited the house and he refused to break it.
Donning a thick, parka-like jacket and a scarf, Harvey looked down at the many bottles of liquor. Get me some giggle water, Jamie had demanded. What a stupid slang term, Harvey had thought. He'd never strayed toward strong liquor himself, but he had cigarettes and caffeine to make up for that. He also, of course, had his wine. At least he drank that in moderation. Now, as he looked down at the rack of whiskey bottles, he couldn't remember which brand the boozer had requested. There were Kentucky bourbons and Tennessee whiskeys and corn whiskeys and rye whiskeys and blended whiskeys...it was enough to drive a man insane. Then again, Harvey already knew he wasn't quite sane anymore. How was one capable of retaining sanity when their only friends were ghosts?
With desperation taking over, Harvey sudden grabbed for a bottle of Jack Daniels and tossed it into the cart. It was a popular whiskey, right? As he moved through the store toward the check out counter, he absentmindedly lit himself a cigarette and held it up to his lips. Oh yes, he would also have to stock up on packs of cigarettes. Thredson blew through a pack a day most times. Still without thinking, he loaded his pile of findings on to the conveyor belt. It wasn't until the cashier spoke to him that he blinked his eyes back into focus.
"Sir, there's no smoking allowed it here," she said, eyes narrowing at him as she jerked a thumb toward the sign he knew so well depicting a crudely drawn cigarette surrounded by a circle and then bisected by a red slash. Yes, he knew there was no smoking allowed.
"Right...sorry," he said slowly, removing the still-smoking death stick from his mouth. He glanced around for an ashtray, but found nothing. Instead, he discretely dropped the cigarette o the tile floor and crushed it with his heel, hoping the woman behind the counter didn't notice. She did, but didn't bother to complain. Harvey was, after all, one of the best customers they had. Every week his total spending easily exceeded $200. After the acne-ridden boy bagged Harvey's groceries, he pushed his cart out into the light downfall of snow.
It was December 15th, ten days from Christmas in New York and, well, across the world. Christmas shopping was over, thank God, but he still could not shake the stress he felt. Years ago, he and Katherine had gone shopping together for everything. He was alone now and had to do the shopping for the both of them. Harvey closed the back door of his silver Honda Pilot after strategically piling the grocery bags. Situated, he climbed into the front seat and shoved his key sloppily into the ignition, scratching the plastic around it and adding another white line to the many that had accumulated since he bought the car. He wasn't usually clumsy; he just wasn't too coordinated when his mind dwelt on other things. As he drove toward the dreaded Murder House, Harvey lit up another cigarette and puffed from it slowly. He should have kicked this habit. Hell, he'd kicked it when he started dating Katherine. But, the overwhelming stress had fueled the retrogression into a vulnerable.
Time flew as he drove home. Harvey even sat in the car for a minute or two before he realized he was home. It was a relative term. The only reason it actually felt anything like home was because Katherine was there. Otherwise, the house was foreboding and unwelcoming, but it felt that way even with Katherine there.
With his arms full of bags, Harvey started up the stairs into the old, Victorian-style home. Harvey shakily moved a hand out from beneath the bags and started to turn the knob of the door. He was met with resistance and snarled a curse as he realized it was still locked. A minute later, he was inside and walking down the hallway to his own condo inside the house. Again, he was forced to stop and unlock the door before entering. Balancing the bags precariously, he pushed the door open with his back and entered the flat.
"Katherine? I'm back!" he shouted, moving toward the kitchen with his bags. Harvey knew not if she was in the condo right now but, hopefully, she'd heard him yelling from wherever she was.
Donning a thick, parka-like jacket and a scarf, Harvey looked down at the many bottles of liquor. Get me some giggle water, Jamie had demanded. What a stupid slang term, Harvey had thought. He'd never strayed toward strong liquor himself, but he had cigarettes and caffeine to make up for that. He also, of course, had his wine. At least he drank that in moderation. Now, as he looked down at the rack of whiskey bottles, he couldn't remember which brand the boozer had requested. There were Kentucky bourbons and Tennessee whiskeys and corn whiskeys and rye whiskeys and blended whiskeys...it was enough to drive a man insane. Then again, Harvey already knew he wasn't quite sane anymore. How was one capable of retaining sanity when their only friends were ghosts?
With desperation taking over, Harvey sudden grabbed for a bottle of Jack Daniels and tossed it into the cart. It was a popular whiskey, right? As he moved through the store toward the check out counter, he absentmindedly lit himself a cigarette and held it up to his lips. Oh yes, he would also have to stock up on packs of cigarettes. Thredson blew through a pack a day most times. Still without thinking, he loaded his pile of findings on to the conveyor belt. It wasn't until the cashier spoke to him that he blinked his eyes back into focus.
"Sir, there's no smoking allowed it here," she said, eyes narrowing at him as she jerked a thumb toward the sign he knew so well depicting a crudely drawn cigarette surrounded by a circle and then bisected by a red slash. Yes, he knew there was no smoking allowed.
"Right...sorry," he said slowly, removing the still-smoking death stick from his mouth. He glanced around for an ashtray, but found nothing. Instead, he discretely dropped the cigarette o the tile floor and crushed it with his heel, hoping the woman behind the counter didn't notice. She did, but didn't bother to complain. Harvey was, after all, one of the best customers they had. Every week his total spending easily exceeded $200. After the acne-ridden boy bagged Harvey's groceries, he pushed his cart out into the light downfall of snow.
It was December 15th, ten days from Christmas in New York and, well, across the world. Christmas shopping was over, thank God, but he still could not shake the stress he felt. Years ago, he and Katherine had gone shopping together for everything. He was alone now and had to do the shopping for the both of them. Harvey closed the back door of his silver Honda Pilot after strategically piling the grocery bags. Situated, he climbed into the front seat and shoved his key sloppily into the ignition, scratching the plastic around it and adding another white line to the many that had accumulated since he bought the car. He wasn't usually clumsy; he just wasn't too coordinated when his mind dwelt on other things. As he drove toward the dreaded Murder House, Harvey lit up another cigarette and puffed from it slowly. He should have kicked this habit. Hell, he'd kicked it when he started dating Katherine. But, the overwhelming stress had fueled the retrogression into a vulnerable.
Time flew as he drove home. Harvey even sat in the car for a minute or two before he realized he was home. It was a relative term. The only reason it actually felt anything like home was because Katherine was there. Otherwise, the house was foreboding and unwelcoming, but it felt that way even with Katherine there.
With his arms full of bags, Harvey started up the stairs into the old, Victorian-style home. Harvey shakily moved a hand out from beneath the bags and started to turn the knob of the door. He was met with resistance and snarled a curse as he realized it was still locked. A minute later, he was inside and walking down the hallway to his own condo inside the house. Again, he was forced to stop and unlock the door before entering. Balancing the bags precariously, he pushed the door open with his back and entered the flat.
"Katherine? I'm back!" he shouted, moving toward the kitchen with his bags. Harvey knew not if she was in the condo right now but, hopefully, she'd heard him yelling from wherever she was.