Falling for Crime

Nostalgia

At first it was three months.

And then four.

And then six.

Time had flown by so fast for Alfred F. Jones. There were so many stories he could tell, but honestly, he was content with not, at least, not verbally.

However, all these memories — mostly good — bundled up and warmed his chest. He managed to get a small minimum wage job, something so very minuscule to start him off again. His birthday had passed and he, Arthur and Matthew had celebrated all the more with alcohol and a party.

His twenty first birthday party was the day he met Matthews newfound boyfriend and Alfred's past affiliate, Francis.

Arthur had detested that the Canadian date such a previously foul human. But Alfred and Francis just looked at each other, smiled and said, "We'll let bygones be bygones."

And soon seven months came, with double dates between the four aplenty.

Seven months came, and Alfred could remember the one date with him and Arthur that made his questioning decision final. That one date alone, the first time in forever since Arthur told Alfred he loved him, and since Alfred told Arthur that he, as well, loved the sarcastic Brit.

Some days got hard. But most days filled with satisfaction and a plan that Alfred was so terribly afraid of screwing up.

The American had just got home. He was surprised to see Matthew not occupying the house for once, but immediately assumed that he and Francis were out enjoying themselves. It was around late afternoon, Alfred quietly entered his somewhat dark room and flicked on his light, being greeted to a surprisingly clean room.

Pfft. Thanks, Matthew.

Alfred plopped himself on his bed and threw off his shoes, unbuttoning his fast food brand polo and slipping it off. The American was honestly most comfortable while shirtless, much to Arthur's embarrassment. Fishing out a small box from his pocket and opening his bedside drawer, Alfred paused. He had completely forgotten about that damn diary.

Taking out the leather book that showed tatter and wear, he replaced the journal with the little box and shut his drawer.

It was almost foreign at this point. Alfred hadn't taken a single glance in the book since he had somewhat 'promised' Matthew that he wouldn't burn it.

"Hmm..." He bit his cheek, glancing from the journal to the pen sitting stilly in an empty cup across the room on his desk.

And in one swift jolt, Alfred stood and swiped the pen from the cup, before plopping himself back-first onto his bed. He flipped the journal a few pages, not daring to look at past entries. He clicked the pen and bit his lip, thinking for a minute before scoffing lightly and scribbling,

Dear diary,

Today had been rather swell, I have to say. I finally willed myself to buy Arthur's surprise and hide it away for now, and look! I even recently got myself a job! I mean, the job isn't exactly full paying, but I can start somewhere. We all do. If I'm honest, if we don't start somewhere, then where will we end up? It just makes us less likely to reach our ultimate goal. And if today and the past two years or so have been any consolation, then I know my ultimate goal, and I'm hoping that goal doesn't fail.

- Thursday, January 20th, 3:35 PM

Alfred read over his writing a couple times before smiling softly and shutting it, setting it on his bedside table. Maybe the booklet wasn't so useless, after all.

And before the trio knew it, another two months had passed. Alfred felt like the small box in his drawer was rotting, but he'd check now and then when Arthur wasn't around; still perfectly intact, no rust, no wear.

And then it became three months.

And then four.

It was the middle of 2008, and Alfred truly found satisfaction in his life. His previously mentioned 'goal', however, had yet to be reached. It needed time. He couldn't jump into it just yet. But almost every night, at the same time, the American found himself writing in the journal. And at first, he wrote about recent happenings or what he was excited about that day. Most chapters in his journal contained some form of scribbling about Arthur, how much he loved him. He sounded like a lovesick teenager, but Alfred wouldn't have it any other way.

And so one night, the American read over his entries, about 64 of them since he started actively writing again.

And something felt missing.

He read over each line and each paragraph and couldn't decipher just what it was he was missing. Did he forget to write an entry before bed one night? Did he not mention something about his little surprise for Arthur in another entry?

And then it hit him.

Before he could forget, he flipped a couple pages ahead of his last entry and wrote,

Dear Diary,

How the hell did he get here?

There was something so important about documenting his experiences. Something oddly useless, yet completely satisfying about writing out his story. Something that he would definitely need another book for, but it didn't matter. He would buy two, hell, three if he had to.

And he would document every last moment from when he got arrested that one fateful night, to the last; All the while in third person. 

Funny how that works, huh?

- Sunday, 10:45 PM, 2009.