here at the bottom of the bottle
Jan 3, 2014 9:55:26 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jan 3, 2014 9:55:26 GMT -5
you're my common misconception, always teaching lessons in deception City lights flickered outside the dirty window, the sounds of sirens racing off in the distance. Evening had fallen and the nightlife was beginning to stir, every crook and criminal beginning to stir in preparation for the night ahead. He stared at the pallid face in the mirror, at first not recognizing who was looking back at himself. Then he remembered, oh right, it's me. Dull eyes, purple bags circling them underneath, stared at him, empty of anything but a faint sense of hopelessness and desperation. How far the mighty had fallen! The motel room he'd rented was dirt-cheap and dirt-disgusting. Had there ever even been housecleaning hired in this pathetic dive? Flies buzzed around the florescent lights that shone faded, yellow lights down on a cracked and dirty bathroom that he was sure had seen it's fair share of crack addicts and hookers. Not even horny college kids would step into a place like this to do the dirty deed, cheap or not. How had he ended up here? From the bottom of a bottle. Turning away from the mirror, unable to look at the person staring back at himself, Lucius Akari Renard, who had once been one of the most famous and best exorcists out there, left the bathroom, stepping into a room that was little more than a used toilet itself. A bed, certain to be full of bedbugs, lay haphazardly in one corner, cheap and torn covers left bunched to one side. A TV, long since broken and abandoned, lay opposite to the bed, leaning to one side dangerously. The scuffed carpet underfoot was full of dirt and stains of all kinds-- from blood to vomit to piss and more. The scent lingered in the air in the way that made it easy to tell no amount of cleaning would ever fully purge it. That wasn't the worst of it. No the very worst thing in the entire shitty room lay silently atop a night dresser. Its long neck called out all manner of obscenities, in the way a dirty prostitute might call their client. The bottle looked innocent enough-- but to the one who'd seen the bottom of far more than he cared to think about knew it was all a lie. If you could liken a beer bottle to a prostitute than he was surely the dirty john who'd bought it in a desperate attempt to stave off his own loneliness and desperation. He'd found, over time, that despair had a certain stench all it's own to it, the kind of smell that hung over one no matter how many showers they took in the attempt to wash away the filth clinging, unseen, to their own selves. What a fucking joke, he thought bitterly, crossing the room in just a few steps, reaching down to the neck of the bottle that had brought him to this horrible room, penniless and broken. How had it come to this? He knew the answer full well, but it was easier to blame it on something else, anything else, rather than face the blame that had been staring out at him accusingly in the mirror of the yellowed bathroom. If he'd been any younger than he was now, he supposed he might have thrown himself on the bed and cried out the emotions hammering inside of his head. But he was too old now, too damn old and knew too damn well that no amount of tears could ever fix the sea he was drowning in now-- the one he'd created all his own. Sitting down on the bed, bed-bugs be damned, Lucius stared at the opposite wall blankly. Every movement caused the bed to give alarming squeaks and cracks, but he didn't care if it let go between his weight or not. Let it! Not much of a difference it would make now, after all. Flies buzzed overhead, an irritating background noise. If he looked up at the light no doubt there would be an alarming amount of them, dead in the bottom and a disgusting black smudge blocking out whatever light the pathetic bulb was trying to give out. Not that he needed any light. In fact, he felt like if he had any energy or effort left in him, he would have flicked off the light switch across the room and plunged himself into the dark. At least there he wouldn't have had to see, or look, or feel. Feeling was the very worst part of it-- because he couldn't shut off his emotions, only block them out with the help of a bottle. Those emotions only fed off his memories, making everything a thousand times worse than it already was. But, if nothing else, at least they were his own memories, his own feelings, and his own thoughts. That was a bitter, and empty relief, but a relief all the same. Lifting the bottle he took the biggest swig he could manage, the harsh liquid burning all the way down a torn and raw throat. He focused on the pain, feeling each breath tearing it all open again. That was good. Pain was good because pain blocked out everything else, and, ironically, gave him something more to feel than just an empty desperation mixed with hopelessness to create what was surely the worst possible feeling ever. He'd grown, in a sick and unhealthy way. From razors and cigarettes to bottles and bad decisions. What was worse? The former might have left scars and blood, but this left broken homes and broken futures. There was nothing left. It'd started out, he supposed, as innocently as something like this ever could. After that mess with the spirit that'd nearly broken his body and mind, he'd just wanted something, anything, to tie him back down or make the memories and raw emotions go away. They'd gone away all right. From the occasional foul mood and hangover it'd progressed to bar fights, waking up in the drunk tank, and then blackouts that left him wondering what terrible thing he'd done, or what nameless person had brought him home that night. How many cities had he moved through in the years it took to reach rock bottom? Five? Ten? Hell, twenty? He couldn't remember anymore, names melding together in a mess. Did it matter? No, not anymore. But, if nothing else, he could still name and remember, with exact clarity, the moment it had started, the event that sent this chain of cruel dominoes falling down to the shit hole of a hotel he found himself in now, sitting on a dirty bed with a bottle of beer in his hands. The reason he was sitting here with the bottle, hating it and loving it and needing it all the same. It wasn't anyone's fault but his own but at least it was easier to deal with it he could put a face to the villain that wasn't his. It had been a beautiful, gorgeous day, the kind of day that only came along once in a season, and he supposed that was good, if nothing else had been. A lovely day where one life started and another ended. He'd stood there on that sunny lawn, smiling with a smile that was fake and said to anyone who asked that he was doing great and feeling the best-- how could he possibly not be when he was seeing his best friend and the first and only girl he'd ever loved get married to another man because she didn't feel the way he felt about him? He'd watched her walk up that aisle, the most beautiful smile upon her face, the love apparent in her eyes as she looked at the man that she wanted to spend the rest of her mortal life with-- the man who wasn't him. How had he made it through that horrible day? Because it was important to Malaika, and more than anything he wanted her to be happy-- even if he had to tear out his own heart and stomp it into the ground. That was alright-- he just had to get through this day and then it would be over. So he sat and smiled and offered congratulations and told Malaika how overwhelmingly happy he was that she'd found her soul mate and wasn't this just the most beautiful day? He'd always been good at lying, pretending, and acting like everything was fine-- it was the reason the scars criss-crossing all over his body had gone unseen and unknown through the years. The very worst moment had been just a second-- two words-- the very worst words in the whole of the English dictionary. "I do." Bile, hot and acidic rose in his throat at just the very memory of it all. He felt a little light headed and a lot nauseous and pushed the memories away, even if he just kept going back to them for more. He took another swig of the bottle. It would be empty soon, and when it was, it would all end. Liquid courage was what his father had always said beer gave you-- that was a crock of shit, what it really was was just liquid cowardice masquerading as bravery so you could make stupid decisions, and not have to blame yourself when you woke up. Maybe it was time to stop running away-- the very thing he'd done his entire life and still it had done no good. His demons were faster still no matter how fast he ran and in the end they always caught up. Here now, caught fast in their grasp, he thought that it was really more of a lover's caress than a cage. Another drink. Minutes ticked by, unnoticed. What had he accomplished on his life? Always the prodigy child, the best friend, the guy with the dead smile and empty eyes. The bottle grew lighter. Rock bottom was a cold and empty place but if nothing else, at least he couldn't get any lower than he was now. The flies buzzed overhead, louder than the sounds of the outside world. It was quiet here-- he wouldn't be surprised if he was the only person in the entire hotel. When the receptionist had handed him the keys to this room, some obscure porn playing on an old tinny television, all he'd said was "If you're gonna have some blues with that bottle, fuckin' clean it up before the cops show." Clearly the hotel was used to a rougher crowd and the police kept an eye on it. Frankly he was surprised it was even still in business-- but these guys were probably more than just receptionists and this was just a way point. At least he hadn't gotten into that; he'd given it all up to the bottle. There was a faint sound of yelling from a nearby alleyway-- a crack broke through the air and silence fell again. He ignored it. The bottle was empty now. He looked down at it with faint surprise and disappointment-- he didn't think he'd gone through it that fast. There was a pleasant buzz in his head though. That was good-- it was what he wanted, what he needed. Leaning against the wall, letting go, he breathed out calmly, every muscle limp. He felt weak on the outside, but calm and perfectly rational on the inside. That was a lie but he was good at lying to himself and he'd rather lie than face the ugly truth. Here he was, in his empire of dirt, upon his liar's throne and wearing a crown of thorns. Each breath was calmly ragged-- the sound torn as it dredged up from his burning throat. Slowly, he leaned forward, each movement mechanical and unfeeling. He hated this calm, detached feeling. If anything he should be screaming, shouting and fighting, just to feel anything. But instead here he was, stoic and lifeless to the end. A gun was pulled forth from a zippered and black bag, the make unknown. It surprised him how easily it had been to get one, no questions asked so long as he had the proper papers and identification. He dealt not in taking lives but the fact which comes after-- but people could change and if nothing else he knew what lay ahead. The hunk of metal in his hands felt cold and lifeless-- unfeeling as he felt. There was a dangerous power glistening in the cool steel, ignited the moment that it passed into the hands of one who intended to use it. This was just a formality. He'd died a long time ago, on that beautiful day, with just two, simple and heartfelt words. "I do." |
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