The dim lighting of the place made it almost impossible to see my night's selection clearly. I hated coming to hole in the wall places like this. The selection of girls that I could be taking home was always limited when I came to a last resort bar. I either ended the night with a cougar, someone at least ten years older, or a girl around my age who only wanted to sleep with me to prove that she could defy her daddy. Girls like that always came with emotions and the expectation that I would call them after I kicked them out of my apartment the next morning.
But I'm not that guy. If anything, I'm the boy that parents warn their daughters to stay away from. I stayed out all night. I slept around. I thrived on the occasional bar fight. I had too many tattoos and I swore more than necessary. It was all exhilarating to me, but frowned upon by most people. I felt like those people should pull the sticks out of their asses and just live a little, but that's just my opinion.
"What can I get you?" The balding man behind the bar asked me as I took a seat on one of the ripped leather stools. The light above me flickered and the heavy smell of smoke made my eyes sting.
"Three shots, vodka," I tell him. I wasn't old enough to legally drink, or to even be in this bar. But I had been here enough to know that if I slipped the bartender a little more cash, my age wouldn't matter. He slid the three glasses down to me and smiled, a creepy smile filled with yellowing teeth.
The place was practically dead besides a couple of passed out, overweight men and myself. I realized that I would be spending the night alone when the last female left a half hour ago. The place was quiet except for the jukebox in the corner which blared white trash music through the small place. It wasn't my idea of a fun night, but at three in the morning I didn't have any desire to go any place else. So there I sat, my head pounding from the overuse of banjos in every single song.
"What's your name, boy?" The bartender asked, wiping an already shiny glass clean. His accent was as thick as the singers' coming from the music player.
It was my first reaction to lie, but I didn't really see the point. Almost every bartender here knew who I was, so I figured that the yellow toothed man must have been new.
"Harry, Harry Styles," I tell him, knocking back a shot. The burning sensation that slid down my throat was one that I was all too used to.
"Don't you have school in the morning, son? Why are you here?" He asked, leaning his elbows on the counter. He smelled almost as bad as the bar around me.
"Why does it matter?" I snapped. The alcohol was starting to get to my head now. I could hear it affecting me as I spoke, my already thick accent becoming thicker and slurred.
"I think maybe you should be cut off. I can hardly understand you, where are you from?" He asked.
Once again, I saw no point in lying. "England. My mum and I moved to this shit hole of a town last year." I rolled my eyes as he took the remaining shot glasses from in front of me.
He chuckled. "Maybe I should call her to come get you. What's her number?"
"No, I'm fine," I told him, getting off the stool and staggering to the doors. I didn't need to her my mother's grief tonight, I knew it would turn into one huge argument that would not change anything. At the end of the day, I was going to do whatever the hell I wanted. I didn't even live with her anymore, anyways.
The cold wind felt good on my face as it whipped around me. Drinking made me sweat and the coolness of the air was enough to get my body temperature back to normal.
I stumbled across the street, trying to remember which way my apartment was. As I tried to step over the curb, my foot caught the edge and the next thing I knew my face smacked against the hard concrete.
I felt a firm hand on my should as I tried to get up. I panicked, thinking it was some homeless man trying to rob me, and swung my arms. This neighborhood wasn't the greatest and I had heard stories of people getting jumped around here all the time. I wasn't going to be that next story.
The man got a firm grip on my hands. My vision steadied and I realized that it wasn't a homeless man, it was a cop.
YOU ARE READING
Recovery / / h.s
Fanfiction"A love like that was a serious illness, an illness from which you never entirely recover."- Charles Bukowski.
