Fred Burkle

He's lost track of how many beers he's drunk, and how many cigarettes he's smoked. The porch steps are littered with empty bottles and butts crushed out under the heel of his boot as he'd lit the next one. Behind him, inside the house, renovations are half done -- the kitchen, an ensuite bathroom for the bedroom that had been Hilde's, a little office decked out with everything she'd wanted to make it a place she would want to write.

There doesn't really seem any point in finishing any of it, now.

Bill bends his head, cupping his hand to light a fresh cigarette. He's fucking freezing, sitting on the steps, huddled in his coat, but he doesn't want to go inside the house. There's a part of him that's tempted to put a match to it, just raze it to the ground. He's lost too much. He's lost Beverly and Hilde and before that there was Neil, which is different, but still a loss, and then there'd been Eddie, even though he's right here, and back and back until it's just Georgie and the rain.

He's done. He's done dealing with it.
As it turns out, the problem with being done is that he's got no fucking idea what he's supposed to do instead, so he sits there, smoking and staring into space, and then he lifts a beer to his mouth, and he drinks.

Because fuck it.
He's done.


ooc: Bill is...not doing well. He could do with some sense knocked into him, honestly. ST/LT welcome.