10/17/09
He walks into the bar, blood dripping from the edge of his eyebrow, just to the side of his temple. He's on drunken autopilot, somehow finding his way to the stool at the end of the bar, and orders a beer and shot of whiskey.
They serve him, no problem, assuming he's shown up once again with fake blood adorning his face, or they just don't care that much. He looks down at his hand, tracing the deep cuts and slices that run along his knuckles, up and down the ridges, skin torn free in sections. He thinks it looks pretty cool.
But he didn't get it in any "cool" way. No barfight, no defending his girl, no batting away a mugger. No, he got it smashing his girlfriend's apartment to pieces. Destroying her fan, shattering her mirror, obliterating her lamp. It was the final straw. She pissed him off for the last time.
Rather than hit her, thankfully it didn't come to that, he thinks, at least it was just her stuff that he battered. Now, he sits and gets even drunker, destroying what's left of his conciousness. Don't think about how much it'll hurt tomorrow, or the blood seeping into the corner of his eye, or the remnants of a relationship, scattered across the floor of the bedroom, broken like everything else in his wake.
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