Holding Grudges

File XV - Part I

This was the first time in what felt like forever that I was truly alone. The relentless ten-hour drive from Ridgefield had drained me to the core, but as I stepped out of the station, a rare moment of peace washed over me. The noise, the chaos, the rush—everything had come to a halt, and now, all that remained was silence. I closed my eyes for a moment, savoring it.

The air was crisp, biting at my skin as I took in a deep breath. Cincinnati's night had settled in, and the cool breeze pushed against me, steadying my racing thoughts. The parking lot was winding down, the hum of activity finally fading away as squad cars rolled into neat rows, their flashing lights now just a distant memory. Officers slowly trickled out, heading home after the grind. The news crews, their cameras packed away, had long since abandoned the scene, chasing whatever fresh story awaited them.

I glanced at my truck, parked at the far corner of the lot. My Ford F-150, a familiar comfort amidst the unfamiliar. The temptation to climb inside, to turn the engine on and escape the chilly night, almost overtook me. But I fought the impulse. Instead, I stretched my legs, letting the stillness surround me, and made my way down the road toward the place I'd be calling home, at least for now.

I'd overheard the officers complaining about the parking situation around here—how finding a spot on the side streets was a damn nightmare. So, it made sense to leave my truck behind at the station. The housing wasn't far, just a two-block walk. The thought of the quarters I'd be staying in seemed more like a temporary refuge than anything resembling comfort, but what choice did I have?

The building wasn't much. "The quarters," they called it. It wasn't a dormitory, nothing even close. It was a small, utilitarian structure, built more out of necessity than any sense of luxury. A place for officers to rest between shifts, to crash for a few hours before the next call. Three stories, old but solid, with that unmistakable downtown Cincinnati grit. Brick and concrete, built to withstand time, like the kind of place you'd walk past every day without even thinking about it. But I had to think about it now, because this was my temporary reality.

Inside, the air smelled of old wood and stale coffee. The first floor was more of a lounge than anything, mismatched furniture—cracked leather couches, dented chairs—just a few pieces of broken-down furniture tossed together. A faded coffee table, the kind you don't care enough about to fix. There was a TV, though no one seemed to use it much. It wasn't a place for relaxation; it was a place to kill time, to drift in and out of consciousness. A kitchenette sat off to the side, stocked with the bare minimum: canned soups, cheap coffee, a few loaves of bread. The kind of place where you might heat up leftovers or make a quick meal between shifts, but never truly settle in.

A dry-erase board near the entrance listed the meal schedule—like that made it any more homey. It was just routine. Like everything else here.

There was no elevator. The stairs creaked beneath my boots as I made my way up to the third floor. The narrow steps felt like they were pressing in from all sides, the weight of the building's age settling into my bones. My room was number 307—at the very top, giving me a half-decent view of the city. But even that felt distant, detached, as if it were meant to remind me how temporary everything was.

I wasn't expecting much. It was a small room, bare-bones, just enough space to sleep and maybe throw my things down. The movers hadn't given me a set of keys yet. They'd said they'd leave a spare pair inside the door—no big deal. It felt odd, almost careless, but maybe that was the point. This wasn't a place to worry about locks. This was a place to crash, to survive, not to live.

I didn't mind it, though. If anything went missing—what would it be? A few sets of clothes, a blanket? Nothing of value. My real possessions, the ones that mattered, were packed away in a storage unit, waiting for the day when I'd find something more permanent. Until then, this was all I had.