[justprompts] Break me, shake me, hate me...
(AU verse, open-unbinding verse, whatever. In the name of breaking muses day.)
and I'm leaning on this broken fence//between past and present tense//and I'm losing all those stupid games//that I swore I'd never play ~the weakerthans
It hadn't been a terribly awful day. The week hadn't had some downward spiral. Things weren't all that much different than usual, except for the fact that he was feeling bad at the end of it, and instead of going home he was sitting in a bar.
He knew it was bad. He avoided bars the best he could manage. He met friends at coffee shops or restaurants, he skipped work outings that included happy hour. It wasn't that he felt weak, but he didn't want to put himself in the situation. He knew he could handle it, because while he did try to avoid being around alcohol, or in bars, it had happened before. And he had been fine. He avoided temptation without too much of a battle. At least after awhile.
But this was the first time since rehab, aside from one or two near relapses, that he had been in a bar on his own. Those times he had been at the end of a rope and needed to sit in a bar, where he was desperate to drink. This time....he just ended up there. The glass of dark liquid just ended up in his hand.
He stared at it for so long, thinking about the feel of it on his lips and down his throat. That soothing familiar burn. His eyes closed and he thought about the days he didn't even have to think about giving in. When he was a drunk and didn't care. When he was perfectly fine with being miserable, because there was nothing else out there for him.
Wasn't that who he really was, after all? Not drinking was a fight. A fight to be this person he was now. A person who got hurt and felt pain, and had no way through it but to take it. A person who was crippled.
Maybe he didn't care. Maybe none of the rest mattered.
Maybe he was still in more pain than he gave himself credit for.
Maybe he still had all of those bad things flashing through the back of his mind unsilenced.
Maybe he was only fooling himself with the life he was trying to have.
Maybe the real him was at the bottom of that glass, however his reflection showed.
His hand shook as the glass' condensation dripped through his fingers. It was an instant. A single instant that it all hit him, nearly knocking him off his stool. Who was he trying to kid anymore? This wasn't him.
He picked up the glass and brought it to his lips, pausing only briefly, before tilting his head back and draining it.
There it was. His old friend. The burn went down his throat and he felt it move all the way down into his stomach, and through his veins. He had never felt that sensation before, so acutely, and it felt like....the kind of comfort only a familiar face in troubled times could bring.
He ordered another.
This was him.
500
and I'm leaning on this broken fence//between past and present tense//and I'm losing all those stupid games//that I swore I'd never play ~the weakerthans
It hadn't been a terribly awful day. The week hadn't had some downward spiral. Things weren't all that much different than usual, except for the fact that he was feeling bad at the end of it, and instead of going home he was sitting in a bar.
He knew it was bad. He avoided bars the best he could manage. He met friends at coffee shops or restaurants, he skipped work outings that included happy hour. It wasn't that he felt weak, but he didn't want to put himself in the situation. He knew he could handle it, because while he did try to avoid being around alcohol, or in bars, it had happened before. And he had been fine. He avoided temptation without too much of a battle. At least after awhile.
But this was the first time since rehab, aside from one or two near relapses, that he had been in a bar on his own. Those times he had been at the end of a rope and needed to sit in a bar, where he was desperate to drink. This time....he just ended up there. The glass of dark liquid just ended up in his hand.
He stared at it for so long, thinking about the feel of it on his lips and down his throat. That soothing familiar burn. His eyes closed and he thought about the days he didn't even have to think about giving in. When he was a drunk and didn't care. When he was perfectly fine with being miserable, because there was nothing else out there for him.
Wasn't that who he really was, after all? Not drinking was a fight. A fight to be this person he was now. A person who got hurt and felt pain, and had no way through it but to take it. A person who was crippled.
Maybe he didn't care. Maybe none of the rest mattered.
Maybe he was still in more pain than he gave himself credit for.
Maybe he still had all of those bad things flashing through the back of his mind unsilenced.
Maybe he was only fooling himself with the life he was trying to have.
Maybe the real him was at the bottom of that glass, however his reflection showed.
His hand shook as the glass' condensation dripped through his fingers. It was an instant. A single instant that it all hit him, nearly knocking him off his stool. Who was he trying to kid anymore? This wasn't him.
He picked up the glass and brought it to his lips, pausing only briefly, before tilting his head back and draining it.
There it was. His old friend. The burn went down his throat and he felt it move all the way down into his stomach, and through his veins. He had never felt that sensation before, so acutely, and it felt like....the kind of comfort only a familiar face in troubled times could bring.
He ordered another.
This was him.
500