When everything boils down to nothing, there's always the bottle staring him right in the face.

It's the same as any inconspicuous prescription bottle, small and labeled with enough care to make a regular person think twice before taking whatever's inside it.

No one has ever accused him of being normal and sometimes he honestly believes that the bottle is the only element of trust he's got in life. Its orange-tinted colour is almost nauseating but he finds an agonized sort of comfort in seeing it where it should be, on his coffee table.

When he reaches for the bottle with an ever-steady hand, he's once again aware of how relieving the simple feeling of holding it is. There's a sense of security and astonishment that builds in his gut and tightens his chest so that he can barely breathe. It always comes to this point when he's shamefully aware of how light it is. A simple prescription bottle is both his worst vice and his life saver.

Valium. Without it, the anxiety and panic will eat him alive.

There's a familiar pop of the lid coming off and a tell-tale grimace that follows the swallowing of two pills. He knows that within minutes, the lumps of worry working in his body will fade but never fully disappear.

He leans back and more or less sinks into the cheap imitation leather of his mother's worn couch. Bloodshot eyes inspect brownish stains on the ceiling with forced curiosity.

Truth be told, he's pushing all thoughts of anything involving life outside his shit-hole aside. He doesn't want to think about the lies, the killings, the constant paranoia. It gets to the point where he's convinced that if he looks down, he'll see blood on his hands and know damn well he's guilty; guilty of leading a double life.

He really is very young. Come December, he'll legally be old enough to consume alcohol though such restrictions have never stopped him before. He's not afraid of breaking the law but he's fearful for his life every solitary day.

There's a lot of baggage that comes with being an undercover cop and he's come to understand this perfectly well. It's impossible to not be reminded of the constant dangers lurking about. He could be caught at any given moment and suddenly all the work put into nailing the bad guys goes down the drain. His life ends and for what? A cheesy medal to look at every once in a while and feel better about his lonely existence?

He hasn't gotten laid in God only knows how many years. Horniness isn't conducive to fear and he's somehow accepted defeat, though, sex is the least of his worries. Being only 20 years old and literally alone is depressing enough but having to work with and watch a gang of criminals brutally murder some poor fool while he begs for his life is downright heartbreaking.

He feels for them and he sometimes wishes more than anything that someone would feel for him.

He knows he's doing right by someone. He must be because seeing the way Captain Morrisen looks at him with that unabashed pride of a father-figure is enough to confirm that he's going somewhere.

His face muscles relax evenly as Morrisen comes to mind, eyes never leaving the ceiling. It's true, he doesn't have any family left and while his job is a burden and a half, he knows he can't let the only man who probably gives two shits about him down.

Thinking about his family is no picnic. People talk about the Ramones in whispered tones and for good reason. He's always known that he's bred from a long line of criminals but never has he tasted the dirt of the underworld until now. His father...

Finally those eyes close and he can blame the sudden sunlight seeping through the thin curtains for making them burn but that would be just another lie to add to his sham of a life.

His father is dead and didn't complain one little bit when he went. Rather than feel a sense of pride in this knowledge, he can only manage to feel even more hollow and when he thinks of his mother, a new batch of feelings strike him from all ends.

His head turns to the side ever so slightly as dilated pupils gaze forlornly at a dusty framed photograph of a smiling blonde woman. It hurts even more to think that it's the only image he has of her before her cancer-induced demise and no matter how hard he tries to remember her as the beauty queen he knows she was, all he can see is a frail and bald figure withering into nothingness.

His eyes feel moist and the burning sensation is even stronger but he does not cry. He's abandoned tears all together but the fear sets in and escalates when his phone begins to vibrate.

A single name flashes onto the tiny screen and he can't flip the cell open fast enough with an iron-grip that does not shake.

boss says its urgent. 788 Huntington. hurry Lex

With a snap, the cell flips back and he is once again left in silence. Somehow, the pile of boxes mingled with the lack of furniture make the house seem even lonelier but he has no time to mope now.

The bottle is once again where it should be and the sunlight bounces off of the plastic and casts strangely angelic rays around his long blond locks. Angels and demons is what really comes to mind.

When he finally snaps out of his daze, miserable Lex is gone and replaced with the criminal. It's time to milk this double life for all it's worth.

Milk it he will. Until he dies.