Written for this prompt, all times approximate.
Hoboken, 2007
6:00 PM
He was home from work. Thank f*ck for Fridays.
Maybe that should be the new acronym. TFFF.
Sounded like the noise he made when he sank his *ss to the couch and cut on the TV.
7:00 PM
He leaned forward to grab the baggie off the table when he found the note underneath.
A sick feeling flooded his gut. It was funny, how something that wasn't a shock at all could feel like a stealth frying pan upside the head.
He folded the battered post-it and notched it between his glasses and his forehead.
He rolled his joint, lit it, and curled his knees to his chest.
Smoking was harder through tears.
8:00 PM
He'd lost track of whatever the hell he was watching. Those smiling zombie f*ckers were pretty trippy. The clapping was creepy.
When he concentrated enough to realize they were stealing the characters' voices and cutting their hearts out, he changed the f*cking channel.
9:00PM
Apparently, no amount of smoking could make Carrot Top funny tonight. He changed the channel again, finally settling on cartoons. Nothing better than mindless cartoons.
He took off his glasses, long since flecked to the point of being irritating.
10:00PM
He swore if Kumar didn't stop f*cking calling, he'd kill something.
Tired of cussing and crying, he hit the 'answer' button without putting the phone to his ear.
"Leave. Me. Alone. A*shole."
He hung up and buried his face against his knees.
11:00 PM
He pressed the answer button on and then off again before throwing the phone hard against the wall.
It shattered into a scatter of plastic and wires.
12:00 AM
South Park! That was always a good idea. South Park. Cartman. Life went on as long as Cartman did.
Reruns. Mindless reruns---
It was the episode where Kenny dies. Permanently.
Harold laughed, half a sob, and changed the channel.
1:00 AM
He smoked. He didn't want to sleep, so he smoked.
That was probably counterintuitive, seeing as it relaxed him, but it was something to do. TV depressed him. Maria's *ss-dent in the couch depressed him. His broken phone depressed him. His stale bag of cheetos depressed him.
So did his utter refusal to get off this couch to get a fresh bag.
2:00 AM
He was out of weed. He had more, but he'd have to get up.
It felt like miles from the couch to his stash.
He turned over, curling his knees to him again, and faced the back of the couch.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to sleep.
3:00 AM
At some point he fell into a half-sleep, nightmares playing at even the surface of unconsciousness.
Breath making the air stuffy where his face pressed to the couch, he twitched in his sleep.
4:00-11:00 AM
Something... was beeping.
What the hell was beeping?
At some point, he'd unfolded from his fetal hold on himself and had sprawled on his back. He'd been snoring, though he couldn't know that; tears and weed were never a good mix for the sinuses.
12:00 PM
Something was beeping.
Something was beeping, and he'd have to get the hell up to go find it before he scratched off his own ears from the insanity.
He didn't want to move. He didn't want to leave his couch.
And God dammit, he wasn't going to.
He clamped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.
1:00 PM
Something was beeping, and his hands should be better earplugs than that.
Groaning, he sat up. Just breathing.
He still wasn't giving ground to the world.
He was staying on that couch.
From a position with *ss planted to that couch, he started to search through the piled up crap on the coffee table.
It should not have taken that long.
2:00 PM
F*cking Kumar.
It was a text message.
Cushions in disarray and an impressive crapalanche on the floor from his coffee table, Harold stared down the half-*ssed text speak on his mobile phone.
After a moment, he selected the call back option.
"--This is Kumar Patel, you know what to do. Duh."
He pressed the keypad indiscriminately to hang up before yanking out the battery.
3:00 PM
He dug his glasses out from under the scattered crap from his coffee table.
Beside them was the note he'd notched there.
Gritting his teeth against the tears about to take him again, he held the yellow swatch of paper up and lit it with his Bic.
He watched it burn until his fingers smarted.
It left a spiral of smoke as the remaining scrap fell to the floor.
4:00 PM
God, he hated crying.
He was so f*cking pathetic.
No wonder he couldn't keep her.
He tore at his hair, curled to a ball on his own couch, rumpled work pants getting steadily more tear-damp.
5:00 PM
Harold finally gave over to curiosity and put the battery back in his phone.
Six text messages. Five Kumar, one Vanessa.
He took the battery back out.
6:00 PM
Of course he'd forgotten to lock the door.
Of course he had.
Then again, it didn't really matter, when someone else had the key.
Ugh.
Harold wiped down his face as quickly as he could. As if that would actually hide it. As if he could cover for what a worthless piece of sh*t he really was.
The door clicked shut and a few moments later, he felt a familiar weight settle on the couch beside him.
He didn't look up.
Hoboken, 2007
6:00 PM
He was home from work. Thank f*ck for Fridays.
Maybe that should be the new acronym. TFFF.
Sounded like the noise he made when he sank his *ss to the couch and cut on the TV.
7:00 PM
He leaned forward to grab the baggie off the table when he found the note underneath.
A sick feeling flooded his gut. It was funny, how something that wasn't a shock at all could feel like a stealth frying pan upside the head.
He folded the battered post-it and notched it between his glasses and his forehead.
He rolled his joint, lit it, and curled his knees to his chest.
Smoking was harder through tears.
8:00 PM
He'd lost track of whatever the hell he was watching. Those smiling zombie f*ckers were pretty trippy. The clapping was creepy.
When he concentrated enough to realize they were stealing the characters' voices and cutting their hearts out, he changed the f*cking channel.
9:00PM
Apparently, no amount of smoking could make Carrot Top funny tonight. He changed the channel again, finally settling on cartoons. Nothing better than mindless cartoons.
He took off his glasses, long since flecked to the point of being irritating.
10:00PM
He swore if Kumar didn't stop f*cking calling, he'd kill something.
Tired of cussing and crying, he hit the 'answer' button without putting the phone to his ear.
"Leave. Me. Alone. A*shole."
He hung up and buried his face against his knees.
11:00 PM
He pressed the answer button on and then off again before throwing the phone hard against the wall.
It shattered into a scatter of plastic and wires.
12:00 AM
South Park! That was always a good idea. South Park. Cartman. Life went on as long as Cartman did.
Reruns. Mindless reruns---
It was the episode where Kenny dies. Permanently.
Harold laughed, half a sob, and changed the channel.
1:00 AM
He smoked. He didn't want to sleep, so he smoked.
That was probably counterintuitive, seeing as it relaxed him, but it was something to do. TV depressed him. Maria's *ss-dent in the couch depressed him. His broken phone depressed him. His stale bag of cheetos depressed him.
So did his utter refusal to get off this couch to get a fresh bag.
2:00 AM
He was out of weed. He had more, but he'd have to get up.
It felt like miles from the couch to his stash.
He turned over, curling his knees to him again, and faced the back of the couch.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to sleep.
3:00 AM
At some point he fell into a half-sleep, nightmares playing at even the surface of unconsciousness.
Breath making the air stuffy where his face pressed to the couch, he twitched in his sleep.
4:00-11:00 AM
Something... was beeping.
What the hell was beeping?
At some point, he'd unfolded from his fetal hold on himself and had sprawled on his back. He'd been snoring, though he couldn't know that; tears and weed were never a good mix for the sinuses.
12:00 PM
Something was beeping.
Something was beeping, and he'd have to get the hell up to go find it before he scratched off his own ears from the insanity.
He didn't want to move. He didn't want to leave his couch.
And God dammit, he wasn't going to.
He clamped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.
1:00 PM
Something was beeping, and his hands should be better earplugs than that.
Groaning, he sat up. Just breathing.
He still wasn't giving ground to the world.
He was staying on that couch.
From a position with *ss planted to that couch, he started to search through the piled up crap on the coffee table.
It should not have taken that long.
2:00 PM
F*cking Kumar.
It was a text message.
Cushions in disarray and an impressive crapalanche on the floor from his coffee table, Harold stared down the half-*ssed text speak on his mobile phone.
After a moment, he selected the call back option.
"--This is Kumar Patel, you know what to do. Duh."
He pressed the keypad indiscriminately to hang up before yanking out the battery.
3:00 PM
He dug his glasses out from under the scattered crap from his coffee table.
Beside them was the note he'd notched there.
Gritting his teeth against the tears about to take him again, he held the yellow swatch of paper up and lit it with his Bic.
He watched it burn until his fingers smarted.
It left a spiral of smoke as the remaining scrap fell to the floor.
4:00 PM
God, he hated crying.
He was so f*cking pathetic.
No wonder he couldn't keep her.
He tore at his hair, curled to a ball on his own couch, rumpled work pants getting steadily more tear-damp.
5:00 PM
Harold finally gave over to curiosity and put the battery back in his phone.
Six text messages. Five Kumar, one Vanessa.
He took the battery back out.
6:00 PM
Of course he'd forgotten to lock the door.
Of course he had.
Then again, it didn't really matter, when someone else had the key.
Ugh.
Harold wiped down his face as quickly as he could. As if that would actually hide it. As if he could cover for what a worthless piece of sh*t he really was.
The door clicked shut and a few moments later, he felt a familiar weight settle on the couch beside him.
He didn't look up.