dipsomania. / Flint + Achilles. { calla }.

i. a form of escape.
ii. the act of drinking poison elixir.

He was back in this forsaken pub and his perspective on it remained unchanged as the last time he had ambled into its neon-illuminated walls. And, it was the same as ever, like a shack struck in a loop of time. The musician’s fingers moved in a scripted manner, hitting the same note and he wondered: how can they endure it—the repetitive melody that had been haunting each crevice of the place ever since it was opened? If you ask him, it was nothing but a tune with a cacophonous chorus and a hidden sense of melancholy behind its lyrics. Pathetic. He ran his digits through his sweptback hair, thrust the other hand into his pants’ pocket and acted formidable, like a man of steel; he didn’t want to risk showing the softness underneath when this place is the headquarters of the people who’ll ruthlessly take advantage of it.

Then, came along a person he’d mistaken as a madam. Then, the locomotive dots of light fell perfectly on her frame and he spotted the smudged red lipstick on her rosy brims, her hectic curls and a dress made of elastic material that complimented her structure. “Honey, it’s the Happy Hour! Want one?” She shoved a silver platter with sizzling mugs on it towards his direction and he dismissed her with a wave of his hand and a shake of his head. The gents in the shadowed booth at the corner were awaiting for her return, it seemed, as she hurried off to them a split second after.

The bartender didn’t give a most cordial welcome, yet recognition flashed in his dark gaze as it stilled on him. His jaw clenched and he set down the glass he had been polishing with a cloth. “Why are you here, lad?” It was more of a surprised gasp than an inquiry. His gaze peeled away from Flint’s theatrical stance, spiraling off to the bottles stored within the glass cabinets behind him. When he answered, he flinched at the crack in his voice. “Have you seen my father? He comes here often after work hours.” The admittance was more difficulty when he said it out loud, verbally. A bottle was settled in front of him and he avoided its mirrored surface and his own reflection in it.

“You’ll have to be more specific, everyone comes here after work hours.”

He unlocked his lips with the intention of constructing a counteractive statement and then, realized the truth within his comment. He was a bartender, of course he knew about the steady flow of people that waddled into the pub after the strike of six’. And, amongst the sea of individuals, was his father who had an anxious wife that sends out her son on a daily quest for her husband’s whereabouts. Air surfed into his nostrils and reverberated along the walls of his fragile lungs; then it hissed out and his rear collapsed precisely on the bar-stool behind him.

The bartender slid a shot across the table, its motion coming to an end besides his hand. He didn’t bother enough to check the contents of it, he just longed for an escape. And, he prayed for solitude as the man fixed him another drink. A boy on a quest and a glass full of poison. He should’ve known by now that prayers never worked for Flint Arch. Someone collapsed in the same manner he did besides him and he scowled.

Not again.