Famer's Story writing debate Round#3 TUF V.S. REN

It's a little past 3 a.m. I'm guessing, because I hadn't looked at the clock since I got home. I was sitting at my table keenly placed in the space between my kitchen and livingroom, giving it a diningroom effect. I hadn't turned on any lights but the kitchen's, and its yellow glow cast long, depressed, livid shadows across my apartment. Before me, on the table, was a mostly empty glass of cognac. Sharon didn't like it when I drank, so I never had the opportunity to enjoy such liquid delicacies through the duration of our tempestuous marriage. And God, I needed it, too. So, one of the first things I did for myself when I got this little place in a cute corner of Ft. Greene, Brooklyn, was buy myself a good bottle of Remy Martin. It set me back two weeks, during which I ate mostly ramen and turkey sandwiches from the bodega down the street.It was for special occassions -- happy times; naturally, I hadn't opened it until now. Not when I wanted it, but rather, when I needed it. I was about a third through the bottle. My insides burned, all the way to my soul. My head ached, but the Advil was kicking in. There was a lump on my head, but not even an concussion -- I pleaded with the hospital, and they let me go. I was sweating, but my vision was sharp, and my mind was reeling at a thousand thoughts a minute. She could already be dead. They could already defiled her in so many ways and she may be wishing for death that still hasn't come, but who's icy fingers will burn into her small shoulders just as I watch her eyes dull into oblivion, too little, too late.The point is, these sonsofabitches took my daughter. And, I know exactly what I'm going to do about it. I killed my drink, then headed to the C train on Fulton. Once I got to Lafayette and Fulton, though, I remembered that the trains weren't running for another three hours. I checked my cellphone -- wait, another hour and a half. It was already 4:30 a.m. I stood there, staring at my cellphone, feeling helpless. What did I expect to do, anyway? My intention was to make my way to SoHo to speak to old a couple of old acquaintances who I used to buy weed and percs from once upon a time -- Jim and Baby Easter. They were twins with a penchant for criminalism, so I thought they might know someone who knows someone who could give me a starting point. It's not like I didn't trust that the cops wouldn't do their jobs. But, I sure wasn't going to just sit around and wait for something to happen. Nonetheless, that was the best idea I had come up with in hours. I just wasn't the sort of guy with the wherewithall to do anything at a time like this. When the unimaginable and insufferable occurs; when it's even worse than how shiitty my life already is.My stomach continued to burn and I felt a little nauseous. I considered stopping at one of the 24-hour corner stores in the neighborhood for a bite to eat when my cell rang. Who in the hell... but, as soon as I took it out of my pocket, I almost dropped it. It was coming from Sharon's cell. I hesitated, then tried to answer, but line cut off. I missed it. Likely, dodged a bullet. Still, I stood there on the sidewalk, staring at my phone, bathed in orange streetlights in the uncharacteristically desolate downtown Ft. Greene. It rang again and I answered almost immediately."Sharon?" I asked cautiously. Who knows what she had in store for me."No, it's Mark." His voice was hushed and strained.I hesitated for probably a full minute before replying, "what?" "It's Mark," he replied cooly in the same voice. "How ya doing, bud?""Pretty shiitty," I replied icily."Yeah, me too," he said. "Huh," I grunted."Yeah. Look.. I think we need to do something about this," he began."Do something about this? What do you mean," I inquired tentatively."Look, I know how you must feel about this," Mark continued, "I'm sure it's much worse than what I'm going through.""You don't say," I muttered, rolling my eyes."Well, even based on how I feel, I think we should do something about it," stated Mark with finality."What's going on? Where's Sharon?" I asked, confused, growing frustrated."Sharon doesn't need to know about this," answered Mark."Look, you're kind of weirding me out. Don't call me again, alright?" I said after hesitating again."Alright, alright, I understand. But, look, if you change your mind, meet me at the French coffee shop on Fulton tomorrow at 11 in the morning. We can try to sort this out together. In the meanwhile, try to get some rest. Nothing's gonna happen right now," concluded Mark."Look--" I started, but the phone beeped in my ear, indicating a severed line.