[center][h2][color=chocolate]Charlie Lerner[/color][/h2][/center]
[hr]

Charlie wasn't exactly a fan of celebration. So, when the Mayor's message came through the answering machine (he heard the phone ring, didn't pick up) he groaned, feeling both annoyed and pitiful at the Mayor's annual attempt to get people to actually care about the New Year. Although he would admit there was one thing that always brought a smile to his face during any one of the Mayor's picnic's, and his eyes glance over to the numerous goldfish swimming around in his fish tank in the corner of the room. 

But that would have to wait for later. A New Year didn't mean much for the fishing business. The fish to be caught for the day weren't going to give him an easy time just because the calendar had struck anew. In fact his day would most likely prove to be harder, what with all the people celebrating on the beach, making fools of themselves as that's all the celebration was for; an excuse to act like an idiot. 

Cylie had been out last night (probably all night) and so he wasn't going to be getting her help today. He could hear her snores from the kitchen. But he made her breakfast (something to break her hangover with as well) with eggs, bacon and salmon, and made something small for Mom, before bringing it into her room on a tray, carefully pushing the door open with his back. 

The room is dark, cluttered, and stuffy. The windows have been closed for he doesn't know how long, the curtains drawn along with them, because Mom said the light "hurt her eyes". She isn't awake yet, but he places the tray on her bedside table, replacing it with the other one, the food half-eaten. And then slowly, he leaves the room, closing the door with a soft click. 

Letting out a sigh, Charlie puts most thoughts out of his head and gathers his fishing equipment; his two fishing poles, one old and rusted, the other brand new, his bag of bait, his basket to put any caught fish in for the day and a small knife. Two fishing poles on his back in a bag, the bait clinging to his belt next to the basket, knife carefully placed in the waistband of his pants, he moves towards the front door, the floorboards creaking under him. 

But before he leaves, he takes a long look at the house behind him; the house he's lived in all his life, a house scarred with memories and an endless amount of emotions Charlie could hardly begin to label and tag as events in his life. He took a look at the house he'd most likely die in.

[i]A New Year, a new me,[/i] he heard people often say. [i]What a load of crap.[/i]

He opens the door into the sun, and closes it behind him.