by Adam Birmingham

Created on: June 27, 2010

Damon stared at the clock.

1:37 stared back, in red glowing letters, the PM light was on.

"God bless insomnia!" Damon declared angrily as he got out of his condensed twin bed. He stumbled half heartedly into the his apartment's bathroom, the bathroom, like Damon had seen better days. The floors were grimy, the drain of the shower did not work, the sink spurted dirty water and the mirror was cracked, this was apparently caused when the previous tenant sucker punched it.

Damon wasn't in much better than the mirror, he was only forty three, but when he looked in the mirror, someone in their early fifties stared back, his once vibrant, jet black hair was graying heavily at the temples, there were dark purple bags under his eyes, stress wrinkles accompanied them. His cheeks were gaunt, and it appeared as though he hadn't had a decent meal in weeks. Maybe he hadn't his memory failed him.

One thing Damon could remember however, was the insomnia, it had been very mild most of his life and he could deal with it, then. Over the past two years though, the insomnia took a turn for the worse, Damon had gone from six somewhat healthy hours of sleep every night to two and a half hours on a good night. He felt as though his mind was deteriorating, and it did not help matters that his body was showing it.

Damon sighed, it almost didn't matter to him anymore, maybe that was the worse part.

He stepped away the mirror and the thoughts that accompanied it and instead grabbed a half smoked pack of cigarettes, his lighter, his cell phone and his M 1911 .45 colt pistol. There was always something stupid to do at two o'clock in the morning when you live in the city.

He exited the cramped surroundings and as he did he glanced the bronze plaque on the door, it read: Damon Rascato, Private investigator. Damon stood in the stairwell as he lit a cigarette and took in his surroundings, the apartment block was quiet tonight, a welcome break from either the frat boys partying or the gangbangers starting trouble, as Damon took a long, satisfying drag on his cigarette he scrolled through his contacts until he reached the name he was looking for: Travers.

Damon hit the call button, Travers was once an informant he used while investigating drug related crimes, and overtime, Travers had grown on him, he was probably one of the few friends Damon actually had.

The conversation was short sweet and to the point, Travers was moving a small shipment to a rather dangerous

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