He threw the pills back and within seconds the effects of the Methadone hit him. An artificial warmth enveloped his body, he felt bubbly, he felt just... supreme. Jack laughed, or rather giggled like some school girl. This wasn't any kind of euphoria like some good tar would give him; he didn't forget, he knew where he was, what he was doing, he just laughed because it felt good, it felt good to laugh and he didn't know why.
He looked at himself in the mirror, running his hands through his face, he lets his thumbs softy push against his closed eyes. They were so damn soft, the human body was soft, that wasn't a good thing, he thought, it wasn't because creatures weren't soft.
"J'ai dit, je veux tuer. Tuer, tuer, tuer .... Je veux être le tueur, le tueur numéro un, le meilleur tueur, de tuer tout le temps. Envoyez-moi n'importe où, je vais tuer tout le monde .... J'ai passé quinze jours à l'hôpital militaire, dans l'hôpital psychiatrique, car apparemment, l'armée n'est pas pour tuer, c'est pour éplucher les pommes de terre!"
He stopped himself, wondering if he said it too loud- not that it mattered of course- no one could speak his language here. He was alone, alone in this country, alone back in Paris too. He was a Pied Noir, a person cursed with the gift of living in the world between between worlds. He cursed himself for his self pity.
Jacque exited the washroom with only slight stumbling but he regained his composer quite quickly. He smiled at the group and took a seat by the bar. "So... how's everyone doing tonight?"
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