the black hole that is my mind {kari/rook}

As I'm slumping in an unpleasant reverie with nothing but flat ale as company, I begin to wonder why I keep coming to the same sticky, heavy-aired watering hole every Friday night. It isn't for the atmosphere, I concede that much. Most men come here hoping to forget their hardships by indulging in sin, drinking away the night with an almost enthusiastic disdain for the world around them. They carry a consistent stench of misogyny and manual labour - I can smell it on their breath and in their words. They are the kind of men who call their wives "the old ball and chain", but she hasn't let him touch her in three months.

Others are here to drink until they pass out. For them, it's the only way they can escape the guilts that rot away inside of them, gnawing at their souls piece by piece. Their transgressions are like termites, twisting their way into every aspect of their thoughts. They try to bleach it out with vodka and white spirits, but it's there - burning away at them. They can't forget, so they simply go to sleep in a sticky sprawl of drool and vomit.

Some men, particularly the younger men - boys in truth, are here for one thing only. They are brainwashed by the female body. All day at work they imagine it. All night in bed they imagine it. Their minds are so simple - I wish mine was that simple. It's not. They come in droves, with their friends - but secretly they are trying to outdo each other, compete with each other to see who can bed the most attractive female. I'd compare it to some kind of dominant alpha-male mentality, but in truth it's just human nature.

I take a swig of my ale. It is thick and heavy, and too airy in truth. Unlike most people in this godforsaken hole, I drink to remember. At least, I drink in hope that I can stitch together my patchwork mind and make sense of it. My head is like a fishbowl that someone threw at a brick wall, my mind shattered into a million shards, and every time I think back to before I feel a damp, physical pain in the rear of my cortex. I feel as vulnerable as the metaphorical goldfish would be, twitching on the concrete - and I may as well be one, the amount of use I am to anyone in District Nine. I'm not from round here, I've figured that much out already.

Jacob keeps saying I'm too smart for my own good, and that I should keep my mouth shut and myself to myself. Maybe he's right. It's not a good idea for a farmhand girl to snoop around and ask questions that she shouldn't. We both figure that I was out bleeding in that field for a reason. I must have done something really bad to someone to have my head fractured that badly. Someone wanted me dead, or at least very badly injured. It turns out I have no fucking clue what I did, and maybe that's what they wanted. Jacob figures if I find out, I could get hurt again.

He's far too protective, and owes me nothing. I'm not quite sure what I did to deserve the care of a stubborn old man like him.

And fuck, it's all just an aching hole, and it tires me out so much.

I turn to my suitor, my eyes squinting.
"Did you put something in my drink?" I accuse him, and he doesn't like that. He gets angry that I would suggest such a thing. He doesn't lay a hand on me, but he points aggressively. He is visibly upset, and leaves. I don't know why he would be hurt by such a suggestion, but his friends follow, shaking their heads.

And now I remember why I like to drink so much. Not to remember, not to forget, but because I, like to many others, want to get rid of this awful feeling of being different.

Really, we're all the same.

I stand up straight and walk back to the bar, leaning against a wooden post that has been painted, and re-painted a dozen times. I realise that I'm not drunk at all, just damaged. I think I had another blackout. It would explain why the guy got angry. Fuck, I fucking hate myself so much. I lean my body weight on the bar and call for another drink. I must have been a really shit person to be hurt in this way, to be damaged beyond repair, to fall every time I try to climb out of this hole.

I don't cry, or sulk. I bite my lower lip, sit up straight, and wait for my drink. The number two burns in my mind, and I can taste marzipan for some reason. My memories are like ghosts, drifting in and out of my vision and senses. They're there for a moment, then swallowed up by something. The boy was nice. He was attractive, and bought me a drink. I don't think any boy has ever bought me a drink before, but then again, when I think about it, maybe one has.