Chapter 2: The Hangover
1287 Words
Author's Point of View:
The pounding in his skull was merciless, steady and unrelenting, like someone had wedged a jackhammer between his temples. Each throb carried the weight of last night’s whiskey, the cheap stuff that burned going down and came back up twice as bitter in the morning.
The second thing he noticed was the taste—sour, stale, thick on his tongue like copper and ash. His mouth was dry, so dry it felt like sand had been poured down his throat. He groaned, turning his head, only to press his cheek against the freezing bite of metal.
Not a pillow. Not his bed. Not even his couch.
That was when he forced one eye open.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering in a rhythm that mocked him. Steel bars cut across his line of sight. Gray cinder block walls rose high and cold, and the bench beneath him was thin, unforgiving, the kind that left bruises on his back.
He didn’t need anyone to tell him where he was.
The precinct. Again.
“Rise and shine, Romano.”
The voice came smooth, tinged with amusement. He didn’t have to look up to know who it was. Officer Martinez leaned against the bars, arms crossed, smirk deepening with every second Jaxon didn’t move.
“Thought we told you to keep your drinking off the sidewalks.”
Jaxon groaned, dragging a hand across his face, rough stubble scraping against his palm. His voice was gravel when he spoke. “Wasn’t a sidewalk. It was a bench. Pretty damn comfy until you jackasses woke me up.”
Martinez chuckled, shaking his head. “Someone called in a report of a homeless guy passed out in the park. Imagine our surprise when it turned out to be you.”
He finally sat up, slow and deliberate, the world tilting sideways before it evened out. His leather jacket had been bunched under his head like a pillow, and the stale stench of booze and cigarettes rose with him. He rubbed at the ache in his temples, but it was useless.
“Where’s Simmons?” he asked, squinting against the light. Normally, by now, the Chief would’ve been here—arms folded, jaw tight, eyes filled with all the disappointment in the world.
Martinez’s smirk faltered at the name. “Chief Simmons has better things to do than babysit you. You’re lucky he still bothers at all. The only reason you’re not rotting in a holding cell until Monday is because of your brother.”
The word landed like a punch to the ribs. *Brother.* The golden cop. The pride of the town. The one everyone still whispered about. One person compared him to whenever they looked at Jaxon and shook their heads.
And then there was him.
Jaxon leaned back against the wall, snorting. “Yeah, well. He ain’t here, is he?”
Martinez’s voice softened, the smirk gone. “He would’ve hated seeing you like this.”
That bitterness, sharp and familiar, clawed its way up Jaxon’s throat. He barked out a laugh, harsh and humorless. “Then it’s a good thing he’s not around to see it.”
The cell door buzzed, the lock clanking open. Martinez stepped aside. “Sober up, Romano. One of these days, you’re not going to wake up here. You’re going to wake up in a morgue.”
Jaxon pushed himself to his feet, hands shoved deep into his pockets, boots dragging across the scuffed floor. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
---
The precinct’s hallways reeked of bleach and stale coffee. Phones rang, keyboards clattered, papers shuffled. Officers moved around with purpose, their badges gleaming, their shoes polished. A few looked up as he passed, their expressions a mix of pity, annoyance, and that unspoken thought: *wasted potential.*
He ignored them. He’d learned a long time ago that ignoring hurt less than caring.
He shoved through the heavy double doors, squinting as the morning light slapped him across the face.
The world outside was blinding. The sun bore down on him like judgment itself, too bright, too sharp. Every sound grated—the bark of a dog, the chatter of students walking by, the honk of some impatient driver. His head throbbed with every step.
His hand slid into his pocket and closed around the metal cigarette case. The cool surface steadied him. He traced the engraved letters with his thumb: **D.R.** He flipped it open, slid one between his lips, and lit it with a flick of his lighter.
The first inhale burned, sharp and bitter, but it was familiar. Calming. He closed his eyes, letting the smoke fill his lungs before releasing it in a slow stream.
Daniel Romano. He didn’t need to say the name. Everyone else said it for him—sometimes directly, sometimes not, but always in the shadow he couldn’t shake. His brother had been the good one. The hero. The uniform that fits perfectly.
And Jaxon? He was the opposite. The failure. The disappointment. A reminder of everything people were glad *Daniel* had never been.
He took another drag, exhaled, and laughed under his breath.
Another wasted night. Another wasted morning.
And still, he felt nothing.
---
The walk through town was the same as it always was: cracked sidewalks, peeling paint, and the hum of gossip that followed him like a storm cloud.
People noticed him. They always did. A woman tugged her child closer as he passed. A group of old men at the diner leaned in and whispered. A couple of teenagers smirked, one of them muttering something about “the town’s washed-up loser.”
He smirked back. It was easier to play the villain they expected than to prove them wrong.
His boots scuffed the pavement as he moved past storefronts he’d grown up with—shops that had been there when he was a kid, back when he still believed he could be something. Back when his brother was alive.
The liquor store owner gave him a long, knowing look as he passed. Jaxon offered a lazy salute.
By the time he reached his building, the cigarette was down to the filter. He dropped it, ground it under his boot, and climbed the stairs two at a time despite the pounding on his head.
He got in an argument with the neighbor after trying to get into the wrong apartment.
Room 208. The numbers on the door were crooked, one of the screws half gone. It suited him.
He shoved the key in the lock and pushed the door open.
The smell hit first—stale smoke, spilled liquor, fried food from the neighbors wafting through the thin walls. His apartment was chaotic: clothes scattered on the floor, bottles rolling underfoot, a mattress shoved into the corner without a frame.
Jaxon kicked the door shut behind him and collapsed onto the mattress without bothering to take off his boots. The springs creaked under his weight. He stared up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks with tired eyes.
His hand found the cigarette case again. His thumb brushed over the letters. He’d told himself he didn’t care, that nothing mattered, that emptiness was better than feeling the weight of it all.
But lying there, smoke still in his lungs and the ache in his head refusing to fade, he knew the truth.
He cared. Too much.
And that was the problem.
He exhaled, a shaky sound that might have been a laugh, might have been a sigh.
The ceiling stared back, cracked and silent.
And Jaxon Romano—screw-up, drunk, disappointment—closed his eyes and told himself that maybe tomorrow, he’d feel something.
Maybe.
But not today.
- Writer
