Sins On The Skin

XXII.

He must have been on his third drink, possibly even his fourth.

Unfortunately, it still hadn't managed to numb his brain.

The image of that fucker forcing his fingers inside Gwen's mouth, the image of them kissing, it was there every time his eyelids kissed. By now, there should have been darkness, there should have been faint colours, attacking him without meaning to. Anything but that. Yet, he still saw her back collide with the glass door, he still made eye contact with Seth as he dared to touch what was not his.

Maybe by the time the fifth reached his empty stomach, he'd manage to lose all awareness.

But, that's impractical, the logical part of his brain reminded, what the Hell is Drew going to do with your unconsious body, you dimwit? You think he'll just let you sleep it off on his counter?

Drew, the owner and Nate's part-time psychologist, kept glancing over at his hunched figure, concerned and unsure of how to proceed. He'd brought him drink after drink after drink and yet, he hadn't managed to get a word out of him, only a few grunts.

The man he saw was completely crashed, his eyes bleeding with emotion but he still wore his pride on his sleeve. In a way, he reminded Drew of an exiled King during the last day of his reign.

It made sense, the King was defenceless without the Queen to hold his hand and help him exit with the kind of subtle grace only an aristocrat managed to develop.

Nathan noticed the eyes that lingered on him but he kept his gaze averted and bit back the snark comment that burned his throat. No, creating more negativity wasn't wise. Neither was commanding his lips to remain sealed.

Lifting his glass towards Drew, the professor murmured, "I drink deeply and evenly now. I drink to paradise and death and the lie of love." There was nothing but a few stray drops left in the tumbler when he put it down.

"Bukowski?" Drew questioned and dragged a hand through his hair. "No, wait don't tell me. Who else would you be quoting while drowning yourself in alcohol?"

The grey eyed man did not reply, his mind too fogged up to conjure up a smart response. His fingers were too numb to allow him any gestured responses. His lungs were aching too much to let him breathe. His heart was too broken for him feel. He was too messed up to make sense of the turbulence in his soul.

Due to all that, he simply sat in complete silence and drank until he almost forgot about her betrayal and his pain.

Only the dead have seen the end of the war, the voice in his head told him, possibly trying to remind him that he did not possess all the facts but in his haze all he could reply was, is this what it's like to be dead, then? Huh, always thought it'd hurt less. Endless nothingness. Of course, if she ever heard me, she'd try to convince me of Heaven's existence. If she ever heard me, she'd have to hear that even if there is a Heaven, and if it is different for every person, mine still looks abysmally bleak.

It still is worse than my Hell, though, so I don't see a point in naming it Heaven.

"Never ask what my Hell looks like," I'd whisper to her, "You wouldn't like it."

My God, I don't either but, at least, I'm comfortable knowing that I'm the sole owner of its flames.