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If you asked mr. Wrench to tell you a story, he would probably think about your request for quite a long time. Over the seven years of working with his partner and friend mr. Numbers, he gathered lots of memories. Some of them were still making him laugh, others though he was trying to forget. If only he was a little bit more sentimental, he could write a whole series of books about the shit they experienced together.
It all started one day, when he was bored more than usual. Since he turned 55, his life was becoming more and more peaceful every year. He couldn't tell if he was unhappy about it, though. His only problem were the memories. They haunted him, making it difficult for him to sleep at night and causing him to plunge into them in the light of a day. It was a rare day when he wasn't sitting in his favourite armchair, confused and wondering if he's being in reality or his brain is just tricking him again. He looked at the calendar on the wall - it was February 23rd, 17.23 pm. His friend Jenna gave that electronic thing for him on his 52nd birthday. The coolest thing was that the calendar was also showing him a new quote every day.
"Everyone is a genius at least once a year. The real geniuses simply have their bright ideas closer together." Georg C. Lichtenberg
He frowned. Another quote, that meant nothing to him. It's not going to change his life. Just like the previous ones.
Jenna died of breast cancer two years ago. He didn't cry at the funeral, even though he was in pain. When he returned home, the first thing he did was destroying everything that could possibly remind him of his deceived friend. While he was collecting books she once gave him for Christmas, he realized that the situation felt strangely familiar to him. When his partner died, he went to their place and burnt most of Numbers' things. All his clothes, books they were reading together, even the bedding. Then he closed the door to the Numbers' room and draw a thick black exclamation mark in the middle of it. If someone asked him to explain his choice of the sign, he couldn't answer for sure. That sign meant to him both danger and fear. Oh, he was terribly afraid of pain. Not physical pain, but that horrible feeling, that forced him to think about everything and nothing at the same time, 24/7. Back then, it felt excruciatingly hard for him to do even simple things like eating or going for a walk. That feeling started vanishing over time, but now, when Jenna died, he was afraid all that horror might repeat. It didn't though - he just felt a little bit emptier, than usual. The сalendar was the only thing he haven't thrown away, probably because of all that problems with his memory, he taught himself to look at it every day, just to convince himself he haven't lost control yet.
The night was terrible. In his dream he saw that guy again.. he tried his best to remeber his name, but failed. "Malvo.. something... Malvo" - he was wispering silently. Leaving any attempts to remeber a guy's name, he looked at the calendar - 03.41 am. He narrowed his eyes, trying to find out what today's quote is, then got out of his bed and went closer.
"Do believe in second chances" - the calendar told him.
Wrench sighed. He didn't want to sleep anyway. He was going to return to bed and read for a while, when he saw a bright postcard on his desk. "Ah, that's probably from Jenna. Guess I wanted to throw it away and forgot it here." - he thought. But when he took it, he reconized his own handwriting. A postcard from Bismarck, North Dakota. It was written during his first days as a hitman.
"Fuck me, I don't know, if it's gonna work out or not, but for now I decided to take a risk. I'd be a complete jerk, if I didn't take it, right? They keep telling me smth about my partner. No idea who will be, I only hope he won't be an asshole, cuz fuck, I'm tired of that shit."
Wrench put the card back on the table and smiled. Back then he liked to write to himself on a postcards. Most of them he was destroying immideately after he finished writing, but this one survived somehow. There also was a large stack of colored paper on the desk. Jenna always told him he should start writing or drawing something. "There's a theory," - she told him once. - "That those people who don't have one of tha basic senses, usually become a very talented artists or writers. Sometimes even dancers!". Wrench thought that theory was a piece of shit, but smiled at her politely. At least, she believed in him, probably even more, than he believed in himself. He sat at his desk, chose a blue sheet of paper and, after thinking for a moment, started writing.