“No, I don't drink.” Conell spoke honestly, denying the offer of whiskey. He had never liked how alcohol made him feel. He liked to be in full control of himself when he could help it. Well, not in full control, he was never fully in control truly. His few emotions ruled him, which is why drinking was probably a very bad idea. Or was it? On one hand it could numb his urges and triggers a little, maybe making him a better person to be around. On the other hand though if that failed he would likely find himself with no control at all. He'd probably shoot the first prick who pissed him off. Yeah, it was definitely a bad idea.
It didn't take them long at all to get back to the group. They hadn't been lying either. There were a fair number of people here. Marshall pulled up quite close to the group but seemed to deliberately have the truck bed facing away. Couldn't blame him.
"Here we go... Need to tell 'em... See, Luke? He was lookin' after a little girl. How the fuck do I tell 'em?" Marshall says, sighing. "Okay. I know what to say... Okay... Stay here. And this time - do what I fucking say - please. My best friend just kinda died, lemme' go talk to them before I tell them about you guys. Christ."
This made Conell very angry. His hands quickly curled into fists and his breathing became ragged. The dude just lost his friend, but that wasn't in the young convicts mind. The only thing he was hearing was “do what I fucking say”, over and over and over again and those words were probably the worst combination of words he could possibly hear. Why the fuck should he do what anyone said? He didn't in the group homes. He didn't in the juvenile detention centres and he definitely didn't in prison, despite nearly being killed for it half a dozen times. He sure as shit wasn't going to start now. Fuck orders. Fuck sympathy. Fuck people. He reached over, pulling the bottle of whiskey from under the drivers seat and screwing off the top. Looking at it for a second before taking a long couple of gulps. Screwing the top back on he threw it on the drivers seat, rubbing his hands through his hair stressfully before biting down on his index finger. He tried to get his breathing under control, taking deep breaths and almost forcefully uncurling his fists. Slowly, very slowly, he calmed down, finally exhaling in relief a minute or so later. The rage had left him. For now at least.
He looked out of the window, watching as the events unfolded before him. It seemed very dramatic. Very emotional. He was glad he wasn't out there. Luke may have been a nice guy, but Conell had only known him for a few minutes. He didn't give a fuck about him. He was just another survivor in their crappy world. Though from the way the others reacted he was apparently a lot more than that to them, but Conell wasn't them. Who the fuck was he kidding. He wouldn't fit in with these people. He hadn't fit in with convicts, and he had a hell of a lot more in common with them than he did with these people.
He hoped he wouldn't be killed by a bunch of emotional former tax paying citizens, though he chuckled at the idea of such a thing, before catching himself. Best not to let anyone see him amused right now. This was going to be hard enough already.