Status: Complete.
Aftermath
Two.
You sit in the crowded bar, staring at the pint of whatever-the-fuck-will-get-you-drunk before you. You hate this. You hate everything. You're a very angry human being.
Human being.
You growl lightly as you sit back in your chair, rubbing your hands over your face and into your soft black hair, ignoring the familiar sting as you brush over an old scar on the top of your head. You wonder if the pain will ever go away. The bags under your eyes do nothing for your almost ashen complexion.
You've been coming here every friday since your accident five years ago, and you're not entirely sure why. It's not even a relaxing place. You're 21 years old and you're hanging out in a bar by yourself.
You mutter to yourself as you debate whether or not to just leave, as you do every Friday: "What sort of fuckass idiot thinks this is a fun fucking time, anyway?"
And then you see it. The hand-made necklace glinting from atop your black shirt. A small silver coin you had in your hand the night of the accident. They say you were hit by a car or something, though you're not sure you'll ever be sure what happened. You don't remember much from before then.
The glint of the silver distracts your thoughts as you settle back down in your chair. You look out amongst the faces, studying them all as you do every Friday night.
You lock eyes with a guy about your age sat at the bar. He's thin, probably quite tall when stood up, his black hair spiked naturally in odd directions. His glasses are catching the golden glow of the bar light as he stares back at you, a look of recognition flashing across his eyes. You stare back, partly afraid and partly challenging this stranger. You're sure you know him from somewhere. Your eyes flicker to his wrist, a small wooden-beaded bracelet hangs there and you feel your stomach twist tightly for a moment before you look back to his face.
But like that, he looks away, leaning to the barman to hand over some money before he gets his coat and leaves the bar. You watch him leave alone. It hurts you. You're not sure why.
By the next day, you've forgotten what even bothered you about him.
You've forgotten his face.
You stop going to the bar.
Human being.
You growl lightly as you sit back in your chair, rubbing your hands over your face and into your soft black hair, ignoring the familiar sting as you brush over an old scar on the top of your head. You wonder if the pain will ever go away. The bags under your eyes do nothing for your almost ashen complexion.
You've been coming here every friday since your accident five years ago, and you're not entirely sure why. It's not even a relaxing place. You're 21 years old and you're hanging out in a bar by yourself.
You mutter to yourself as you debate whether or not to just leave, as you do every Friday: "What sort of fuckass idiot thinks this is a fun fucking time, anyway?"
And then you see it. The hand-made necklace glinting from atop your black shirt. A small silver coin you had in your hand the night of the accident. They say you were hit by a car or something, though you're not sure you'll ever be sure what happened. You don't remember much from before then.
The glint of the silver distracts your thoughts as you settle back down in your chair. You look out amongst the faces, studying them all as you do every Friday night.
You lock eyes with a guy about your age sat at the bar. He's thin, probably quite tall when stood up, his black hair spiked naturally in odd directions. His glasses are catching the golden glow of the bar light as he stares back at you, a look of recognition flashing across his eyes. You stare back, partly afraid and partly challenging this stranger. You're sure you know him from somewhere. Your eyes flicker to his wrist, a small wooden-beaded bracelet hangs there and you feel your stomach twist tightly for a moment before you look back to his face.
But like that, he looks away, leaning to the barman to hand over some money before he gets his coat and leaves the bar. You watch him leave alone. It hurts you. You're not sure why.
By the next day, you've forgotten what even bothered you about him.
You've forgotten his face.
You stop going to the bar.