1st January 2004
The start of a new year. I didn't bother with resolutions this time. Last year, I promised myself to quit smoking or maybe smoke less, but I ended up puffing more than ever. I had even collected a lot of self help books to cut down my dirty smoking habits, turned out I loved smoking while reading.
Additionally, Los Angeles hadn't changed—one chaotic case after another. Files stacked on my desk like junk mail, a constant reminder that the city's darkness never took a holiday.
I stood on the balcony—though sometimes I called it a terrace. The distinction didn't matter much to me. What mattered was the air, crisp and untouched, offering a fleeting sense of peace. I'd always been fond of balconies. They were my refuge from the suffocating weight of everything else.
That peace, however, had become a rare commodity since my new neighbors moved in. Their fights turned my quiet haven into a front-row seat to a domestic circus. It was a mix of shrill arguments, the occasional slap, and whispered accusations. A predator-prey dynamic, equal parts amusing and irritating.
The husband, Jack Dawson, often used the balcony as his escape from her tirades. Today was no different.
I glanced at him, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth despite myself. I tried to resist the urge to watch his predicament, but curiosity got the better of me. Subtly, I shifted my gaze, catching him in my peripheral vision. A fresh bruise circled his right eye, the deep blue and purple hues spilling into shades of yellow at the edges—a slow bloom of violence etched onto his skin. The swelling forced his eye into a slight squint, giving his face an almost distorted expression. It was the kind of mark that hinted at the weight of a fist and the force behind it.
I quickly looked away, fixing my eyes on the blank façade of the apartment building across the street, trying to forget what I had seen.
I pulled out a cigarette and flicked my lighter. My head was heavy this morning—I'd stayed up too late, reveling in the rare luxury of not having to be anywhere. The smoke curled into the air as I leaned against the railing, thinking about nothing in particular. Just another day in Los Angeles.
"Happy New Year 2004.," I wished him trying to enlighten his mood. I saw his face, a noticeable smirk appeared on me as I looked at his swollen face and blue mark.
"Fuck off.," he said, completely offended, "But happy new year.,"
He took his own cigarette and lit up, the smoke curled into the fine air. If I was a smoke chimney, he was a gigantic smoke chimney. The chainsmoker of the chainsmoker.
I didn't know he gave of those delinquent vibes with all those tattoos. Especially, the R18 one. Even a 15 year old could easily guess that he was terribly unfit for marriage. This man was a red light tower, no matter how I'd look. I didn't know what on Earth made such a sharp tongue witty lady Clara Dawson fall in love with a gangster looking man like him.
Foolish love?
Most probably.
I blew few puffs as I noticed his ashtry filled with Butts and ash.
"Damn, Detective.," he began, "my wife is a witch. What made me fall for her?"
"Well, I don't know.," I said, pausing for a moment as I clicked my tongue against the palette, "What made Clara fall for a guy like you?"
He let out a dry chuckle, the sound low and humorless, as if he'd heard the question before but never found a satisfying answer. "Beats me, Detective. Maybe she thought she could fix me or some shit. Women love a good project, don't they?" He leaned against the railing, staring into the distance like he was replaying every bad decision that led him to this balcony.
"Fix you?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "She must've underestimated the size of the job."
He laughed at that, a real laugh this time, short and bitter. "You're not wrong. She's been trying to fix me for years, but all she's managed to do is break herself in the process." He took a long drag on his cigarette, the ember glowing like a tiny furnace. "Funny how that works."
I tilted my head, considering his words. "You ever think maybe she wasn't trying to fix you, but just trying to survive you?"
His gaze snapped to mine, the humor draining from his face. For a moment, he said nothing, just stared at me with that one unbruised eye and the other framed in swollen, mottled blue.
"Touché," he muttered finally, looking away again. He tapped the ash off his cigarette, the flick of his fingers almost violent. "Doesn't matter now, does it? We're both too far gone."
"Is that why you stay?" I asked, curious despite myself. "Out of some misguided loyalty, or because you're both waiting to see who breaks first?"
Jack took his time answering. The silence stretched between us, broken only by the faint hiss of cars on the streets below and the occasional crackle of burning tobacco.
"I stay because leaving means starting over," he said at last, his voice quiet but steady. "And starting over means admitting I failed." He glanced at me, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. "Besides, Detective, who else would put up with a guy like me?"
I leaned against the railing, matching his posture. "Good question."
He laughed again, shaking his head. "You're a real ray of sunshine, you know that?"
"Part of the job," I said, taking another drag from my cigarette.
Jack didn't respond, just stared out over the city, the morning light catching the jagged lines of his tattoos and the sharp edge of his profile. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
"Anyways, Detective?" he asked, flicking his cigarette ash over the balcony edge. "Are there any laws for domestic violence against men? My wife's been a real ass—she deserves to spend at least a month in jail."
"Maybe there are," I replied flatly, "but that's not my department."
"Oh, is that so?" He took a deep drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled upward. "Shame."
"But," I added casually, "if your wife kills you, then I can do something about it."
Jack let out a low chuckle, one that didn't reach his eyes. "Careful there, Mr. Hoffman. I'm a butcher and a restaurant owner, remember? But I'll admit, sometimes when I cut meat, I wish it were Clara. Then I see her taking care of my kid, putting food on the table, and… well, I let the thought slide. For a moment."
The sheer shamelessness of his confession made me wonder how Clara hadn't already packed up and left him—or worse. Jack Dawson wasn't just intolerable; he was insufferable, an emotional black hole that sucked the life out of anyone nearby.
"Big boy needs therapy," I muttered under my breath, taking another drag of my cigarette.
"What's that?" he asked, feigning innocence.
I exhaled slowly, leaning against the railing. "Using me as a therapist, aren't you? But like most therapists, I charge—a lot. Jokes aside," I paused, fixing him with a sharp look, "if I find Clara floating dead in the river or dumped in some alley, at least I'll have a verbal clue."
I leaned in slightly, letting the weight of my words settle between us. My tone was no longer casual.
His face flickered with a mix of discomfort and amusement. "Oh, scary, Detective," he said, his smirk returning.
"Not as scary as you," I shot back, "with your butcher knives and those 'harmless' thoughts about your wife."
He laughed again, but this time there was an edge to it, like he wasn't entirely sure if I was joking. Neither was I.