Chapter 2
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Chapter Two: Regrets And Home It was a hot, humid, muggy and all around sticky July evening in Manhattan. Even the countless pigeons had taken to roosting in shaded trees which helped provide a shield against the stagnant air. Jess Mariano was lying facedown on his lumpy bed in his tiny room that was located on the twenty-ninth floor of his mother’s apartment complex. He could hear her banging pots and pans in the kitchen, attempting to cook something edible. He rolled over to face the ceiling and focused on counting the bumps on the adobe surface ++(I have no idea if that’s the right surface, but just go with it)++ He exhaled sharply, trying to bite back the tears pricking at his eyes You’re losing it Mariano, really losing it, pull yourself together and just forget her, but he sighed, knowing that was impossible. He had thought about her every day since his return, which he had spent most of just moping about his mother’s stupid stinking apartment. He hadn’t called any of his friends, he hadn’t even been to his favorite bench in Washington Square Park, he had just skulked, slept, and thought about her.

Hope you remember me
When you're home sick and need a change…
…I know you'll come back some day
On a bed of nails I wait

He rolled over and sighed again as he got up and walked over to the door in his room that lead out to the small balcony. He pushed open the glass barriers and stepped onto the wooden floorboards. He just stood there for a while, taking in the extent of the beautiful Manhattan horizon, his eyes swept over the blinking lights and bustling people, and he couldn’t help but frown. This was not home, not anymore. Home was small and quaint, home was the smell of cheeseburgers and pancakes, home was perfectly trimmed two inch grass and crazy barn-raising festivals, home was a creaking old bridge and the twinkling stars in the sky. Home was her. He rubbed his eyes, subduing his sudden urge to tear up again, and instead of breaking down he sat on the boards and laced his legs between the iron gating, so that they hung over the edge, it almost reminded him of the bridge, except the bridge didn’t feel like a prison. He sighed and rested his head on the iron gate, trying to think of something other then the night when he had single handedly fucked up his chances with her. He could remember the stupid furry thing running in front of the wheels, he could remember the car swerving and demolishing the newly installed bench, but most of all he could remember Rory’s chalk white face and the tears that rolled down her soft cheeks and fell into his shirt as he called 911. He had so often in the past month fought the urge to run away from this hell hole and hop on a bus back to home, but the only thing that kept him where he was, was the thought of returning to find that the only thing that made him truly happy hated him for what he had done.

And all we are
Is all so far
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