August 4, present
?What'll it be?? The bartender looked Glenn over with disinterest clearly plastered on his fleshy face as he dried a mug with a white dishtowel. What'll it be, indeed, Glenn thought. Get drunk fast, or slow? Both had their advantages and disadvantages. He had only gotten drunk on liquor a few times, and all those instances occurred during a week-long bender in which he had been...out of sorts. But what he remembered from those isolated (and memory-blurred) instances was the way the warmth and drunkenness of the whiskey seemed to hit his body all at once, like a tsunami. It had swept away all thoughts in his head, except for the evening's mantra: I am so wasted right now. But the wave crested too soon: get too drunk too fast and you couldn't get served anymore, and if they weren't serving you, they didn't want you at the bar. And tonight, on his 22rd birthday, Glenn had nowhere else he really wanted to go.
?I'll have an ale, please,? Glenn said, smiling faintly at the squat bartender. He was seated at the end of the bar, away from the regulars at The Rusty Nail, one of the more tolerable dives in the West End. Perhaps that was why he hadn't seen any of his co-workers. Not that he was looking for them, of course. He wasn't really looking for anybody to congratulate him or celebrate with him. Or commiserate, even. There was a reason he had kept his plans hidden. Glenn was drinking ale tonight because he wanted to spend his birthday slowly getting drunk and thinking about the past. He wanted to feel the drunkenness lap up on the shores of his mind like the tide, burying his brain gradually. He wanted to walk through the garden of his memories in a pleasant haze, a slowness of thought that would ensure he lingered on every detail. He would inhale the roses' perfume deeply, then reach out and grasp the thorny stems. He would not let go, even as his hand cried out in pain and blood dripped slowly to the ground.
He felt bad for a second for not inviting anyone out, but who could he invite out? His friends back home weren't here, and besides, he hadn't really seen them all that much in the last year or so he was in Blackbridge. He was still in the process of making friends here; he wouldn't let them see him like this, not yet. His co-workers wouldn't understand. His family, his parents? A shake of the head. Don't think about that. Why would they have come out in the first place? Even if they could've, they wouldn't have. Who wants to drink with their son, their nephew, their cousin? No, it was a ridiculous thought, for numerous reasons. Yes, it was best to be alone when thinking about the past. Drunk lips were loose lips, but they wouldn't spill secrets if he was by himself.
The bartender set the drink in front of Glenn without a word, and he paid and tipped the man silently as well. He cupped his hands around the mug and closed his eyes, enjoying the chill sensation on his palms. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, revealing the dingy bar, the obese bartender, and the motley group of longshoremen, sailors, and (no doubt) brigands that comprised the bars' patrons. He then hefted the mug up high with his right hand and tilted it a little, toasting an imaginary person.
?Happy birthday to me, eh?? He chuckled softly under his breath, shaking his head. ?Anyways...here's to you...? he whispered hoarsely, before he brought the mug to his lips and swigged. ?Gods bless you.?
?What'll it be?? The bartender looked Glenn over with disinterest clearly plastered on his fleshy face as he dried a mug with a white dishtowel. What'll it be, indeed, Glenn thought. Get drunk fast, or slow? Both had their advantages and disadvantages. He had only gotten drunk on liquor a few times, and all those instances occurred during a week-long bender in which he had been...out of sorts. But what he remembered from those isolated (and memory-blurred) instances was the way the warmth and drunkenness of the whiskey seemed to hit his body all at once, like a tsunami. It had swept away all thoughts in his head, except for the evening's mantra: I am so wasted right now. But the wave crested too soon: get too drunk too fast and you couldn't get served anymore, and if they weren't serving you, they didn't want you at the bar. And tonight, on his 22rd birthday, Glenn had nowhere else he really wanted to go.
?I'll have an ale, please,? Glenn said, smiling faintly at the squat bartender. He was seated at the end of the bar, away from the regulars at The Rusty Nail, one of the more tolerable dives in the West End. Perhaps that was why he hadn't seen any of his co-workers. Not that he was looking for them, of course. He wasn't really looking for anybody to congratulate him or celebrate with him. Or commiserate, even. There was a reason he had kept his plans hidden. Glenn was drinking ale tonight because he wanted to spend his birthday slowly getting drunk and thinking about the past. He wanted to feel the drunkenness lap up on the shores of his mind like the tide, burying his brain gradually. He wanted to walk through the garden of his memories in a pleasant haze, a slowness of thought that would ensure he lingered on every detail. He would inhale the roses' perfume deeply, then reach out and grasp the thorny stems. He would not let go, even as his hand cried out in pain and blood dripped slowly to the ground.
He felt bad for a second for not inviting anyone out, but who could he invite out? His friends back home weren't here, and besides, he hadn't really seen them all that much in the last year or so he was in Blackbridge. He was still in the process of making friends here; he wouldn't let them see him like this, not yet. His co-workers wouldn't understand. His family, his parents? A shake of the head. Don't think about that. Why would they have come out in the first place? Even if they could've, they wouldn't have. Who wants to drink with their son, their nephew, their cousin? No, it was a ridiculous thought, for numerous reasons. Yes, it was best to be alone when thinking about the past. Drunk lips were loose lips, but they wouldn't spill secrets if he was by himself.
The bartender set the drink in front of Glenn without a word, and he paid and tipped the man silently as well. He cupped his hands around the mug and closed his eyes, enjoying the chill sensation on his palms. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, revealing the dingy bar, the obese bartender, and the motley group of longshoremen, sailors, and (no doubt) brigands that comprised the bars' patrons. He then hefted the mug up high with his right hand and tilted it a little, toasting an imaginary person.
?Happy birthday to me, eh?? He chuckled softly under his breath, shaking his head. ?Anyways...here's to you...? he whispered hoarsely, before he brought the mug to his lips and swigged. ?Gods bless you.?