Bobby Briggs

Try as he might, Bobby cannot remember the last time he felt this fucking tired. In a way, it doesn't seem fair. Apparently, people were having hallucinations for weeks leading up to that movie screening, and seeing awful, personal things. That chaos in the theater the night it played, there wasn't anything that pertained to him specifically; he didn't even get there until everything had already started. Still, the things he saw then have stayed with him since. Not just that unnatural version of Laura, though that, more than anything, has been hard to stop reliving when he closes his eyes, disturbing in how much sense it makes. (He always knew she was afraid of something. He supposes that, now, he knows what that was.) But while Twin Peaks was never as quaint and pleasant as it seemed on the surface, the beings in that theater, the violence and the screaming, was worse than anything he's seen before or could have anticipated.

Things seem to have settled down now, everything having gone back to normal, or whatever amounts to it here, but he doubts he's the only person who's haunted by it in some regard. In order to try to keep his mind off it, he's stopped at a diner on his way back to his apartment after work, not really ready to be alone there just yet. Besides, while this place isn't the Double R by any stretch of the imagination — no pie will ever be as good as Norma's, as far as he's concerned, and then, of course, there's no Shelly here — it has a similar sort of feeling, pleasantly familiar, maybe the closest thing he's got here to home.

Coffee is coffee, anyway. Sitting at the counter, he smiles at the waitress who fills his cup, idly skimming the menu as he says quietly to himself, "Jesus. What a week."