(no subject)
Title: Goodbye.
Pairing: N/A
Rating: PG-13
Summary: What he did know, though he might not have been sober enough to decide if it was night or not, was that he sure could tell the difference between love and screwing someone over.
Warnings: Alcohol consumption.
Today wasn't much different from any other day.
He'd grab his coat and keys, ignore her nagging on the way out, and wander on down the cold street to the local bar.
It became a normal thing for him. Drinking was the only thing the kept the pain from creeping back up on him like the frost on his fingers. He had forgotten to buy a new pair of gloves. It didn't matter; he wouldn't be out here for all that long. Once he got to his new favorite place, he wouldn't come back out until dusk.
As he entered the familiar building, he was greeted with the light sounds of the clinking of glasses, and whatever was playing on the small tv set in the corner of the dimly lit room. He took his normal seat on a stool at the bar, gave the bartender his usual order, and was soon drowning that dull ache in his heart with more liquid poison. It didn't matter to him anymore, though. Nothing did.
Not after they lost the baby.
All Rose ever talked about was how much everyone should pity her, and all she ever did was order him around.
"Oh, Jack, could you do this for me? You know I'm still too weak from the shock of losing the child!"
Yeah. Five months ago.
He frowned, blinking through the blissful haze he was being thrown into. Why did she always have to flood into his thoughts? Couldn't there be just one night where he could drink the sorrows away, to the point where he was sweetly unaware of why he had even gone drinking at all?
He had failed. He failed Rose.
He failed Snake.
He sighed, raising his head to glance around the room, seeing that there was barely anyone here anymore. How long had he been here, dwelling on trivial thoughts? He grunted as he got up from the stool, laid the money down on the counter, and attempted to walk out of the dark place, his legs not exactly doing what he had told them to. He was swaying slightly, but not enough to pass out, so he stumbled his way out of the door, and proceeded to walk down that cold street again.
What time was it? He didn't know. What he did know, though was he might not have been sober enough to decide if it was night or not, was that he sure could tell the difference between love and screwing someone over.
He dug around in his coat pocket for a photo he had kept in there. When he pulled it out, it was a picture of them, together, and smiling.
He spit on it, and tore it to pieces, the small shreds falling to the ground beneath his feet, and he continued on his way, walking right on past their little place in the city.
Goodbye Rose.