{ it's too cold for you here } seal
Nov 19, 2013 14:54:12 GMT -5
Post by semper on Nov 19, 2013 14:54:12 GMT -5
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It’s quite a cold evening. I was able to find my jacket in the mess of clothes I’ve yet to wash, and despite there being holes at the elbows and in a few various other places, it’s still thick and keeps me nice and warm. My gloves are nowhere to be found but it’s alright; I tug my wool hat on and lace up my boots, heading out into the crisp, cool air.
Not very many people are out and about. I assume it’s because snow is steadily falling from the dark sky, sticking to the ground. Not much has accumulated yet but I’m sure come morning there’ll be a few good inches. The flakes are the large fluffy kind, the ones you can hear hitting the leaves when the world is dead silent. There’s hardly any sound coming from the houses I pass; everyone is probably tucked safely away in bed, wriggling their toes by warm coals or wrapping themselves in extra blankets. Normally I would be doing the same thing – it gets quite cold in the basement where I live, so I bundle up and pull out the hammock to rig so that I’m off the floor. But lately my mood has been lower than the temperature and I don’t quite know why. One moment I’m grinning and going through my jobs at Tempus, then the next I’m curled up in the basement and on the verge of tears.
I just need a break.
I tuck my hands into my pockets and duck my head, avoiding acknowledging any pedestrians that come my way. Since I am not from Six I try to just lay low and not cause any trouble, and it’s worked fairly well up to this point. I rarely leave Tempus, and when I do it’s just to head into the woods for a little hiatus. Even being among “friends” I still am horribly insecure and believe that everyone there somehow knows my secret. I’ve literally not said a word to any of them, not even Kody, and I’ve not written anything about my history (aside that I’m from Four and an ex-career) so it’s a petty belief. I’ve absolutely convinced myself, however; I look at Rio or Kody and I instantly feel that they’re judging me for my mistakes. Somehow I’m an open book to them and far too easy to decipher. Frankly I’ve had it feeling this way – I’m done cowering, I’m done drying up the tears before someone discovers me, I’m done just grinning and bearing it.
It’s time to try a new method.
As soon as I open the door to the bar I’m greeted with a rush of warm air, the reek of alcohol, and boisterous laughs from the people inside. The interior is nearly as dark as the outside world, save for the fireplaces and candles, but the atmosphere is far more homely. I meander my way up to the counter and the bar tender gives me a look; I point to one of the whiskey bottles across from me and nod to confirm when the guy picks it up. He fills a glass with it and leaves me the bottle, moving along to another group of waiting patrons.
I don’t understand how Kody does this constantly. There’s never a moment where he’s entirely sober and I can’t blame him. (Well, I do, actually; just not always.) His past is just as good a reason as mine is to want to black out for a while. I bring the glass up and sniff the liquid, scrunching my nose up at the strong odor. I’m fairly certain that whiskey tastes as awful as it smells but I need that relief that Kody’s always achieving by downing ten bottles at a time. Will it really take ten for me to get it too? I put the glass to my lips and force down a few bitter gulps. Better get started, then.
In no time at all I’ve drank nearly three quarters of the large bottle in front of me. The glass sits uselessly and I twirl my finger around the lip of it, trying to get it to make a sound. I must have pressed too hard on it because it falls over and rolls down the bar, stopping next to a guy I haven’t really paid any attention to. A very low groan sounds from my throat and I slide off the stool, dragging the whiskey bottle with me to fetch the glass and stopping when I near the guy.
He looks absolutely awful, even in my partially drunken state. Everything about his demeanor gives off a signal that I take as almost a warning. (“Go away, don’t bother me.”) Perhaps he is here for the same reason I am: to forget. I can’t tell if he’s already got a drink but I pat him on the shoulder anyway, holding out the bottle of whiskey to him as an offering. Just trying to help, buddy.