Dance with a Devil
introduction
Drip, drip, drip.
The whiskey bottle that he had left on the coffee table had been knocked over. The remaining contents of the bottle was dripping on the floor, onto the papers that was splayed all across the carpet.
He breathed, feeling anger boil inside of him, rushing through his veins, but even then, he couldn't mask the feeling of disappointment that he felt. So many feelings and emotions were rushing through him that he didn't exactly know what to feel, except for the one that stood out.
He touched the bruise that was forming right above his cheek, right where Tim punched him, and winced.
He was becoming reckless, he knew that. Drinking too much, sleeping with multiple women, not showing up to practice, just huddling himself in his house. But to the point where his best friend would punch him square in the face? He had no idea.
Either way, he was too stubborn, and he fought back.
His living room was a mess. Papers were scattered everywhere, one of his couch cushions was ripped open from his own anger, glasses were broken, and whiskey bottles were overturned and broken.
It wasn't a pretty sight.
John O'Callaghan stared around, feeling nothing. Even when Tim had told him that The Maine was done for because of him, he had no feelings of remorse or sadness. He just felt empty.
That was the man that he became.
A man who shunned everyone out, locking himself up in his little home, and destroying his body with immense amounts of alcohol. Nobody entered his home, except a few people that he let in. Even then, he didn't treat them properly, not the girls.
People were starting to forget he ever existed, and some of them didn't even want to acknowledge his existence, especially after what he did.
His family couldn't even look him straight in the eye. He lost it all, then. Just one little moment, and he was done for. Nobody could ever look at him the same.
But, it made it even easier to become a hermit and stay away--to be the monster that he became. Nobody had to know who he was; just that guy in that band who was losing it all.
John O'Callaghan was alone.
Just him and his alcohol.
Drip, drip, drip.
The whiskey bottle that he had left on the coffee table had been knocked over. The remaining contents of the bottle was dripping on the floor, onto the papers that was splayed all across the carpet.
He breathed, feeling anger boil inside of him, rushing through his veins, but even then, he couldn't mask the feeling of disappointment that he felt. So many feelings and emotions were rushing through him that he didn't exactly know what to feel, except for the one that stood out.
He touched the bruise that was forming right above his cheek, right where Tim punched him, and winced.
He was becoming reckless, he knew that. Drinking too much, sleeping with multiple women, not showing up to practice, just huddling himself in his house. But to the point where his best friend would punch him square in the face? He had no idea.
Either way, he was too stubborn, and he fought back.
His living room was a mess. Papers were scattered everywhere, one of his couch cushions was ripped open from his own anger, glasses were broken, and whiskey bottles were overturned and broken.
It wasn't a pretty sight.
John O'Callaghan stared around, feeling nothing. Even when Tim had told him that The Maine was done for because of him, he had no feelings of remorse or sadness. He just felt empty.
That was the man that he became.
A man who shunned everyone out, locking himself up in his little home, and destroying his body with immense amounts of alcohol. Nobody entered his home, except a few people that he let in. Even then, he didn't treat them properly, not the girls.
People were starting to forget he ever existed, and some of them didn't even want to acknowledge his existence, especially after what he did.
His family couldn't even look him straight in the eye. He lost it all, then. Just one little moment, and he was done for. Nobody could ever look at him the same.
But, it made it even easier to become a hermit and stay away--to be the monster that he became. Nobody had to know who he was; just that guy in that band who was losing it all.
John O'Callaghan was alone.
Just him and his alcohol.
Drip, drip, drip.
♠ ♠ ♠
Ridiculously short but whatever.This most definitely is a Beauty and the Beast allegory. I have two Disney stories in the works (this being one of them) and no fucks are given.
This is another spontaneous action by me, but I usually have success in doing so, so I shall keep doing it.
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