hehe.. punching chip into the dirt. (tw alcohol, implied sh and angst)
A steady stream of the drink poured down his receiver, climbing through his wire like the worldās weirdest silly straw.
It stung. Obviously. Whiskey tended to burn a bit. Yet, it was still his go-to choice. Made all of this easier, really.
Plink.
The last drop fell, drawing a small sigh from him as he shrugged the empty bottle off to the side. He couldnāt even remember how much he had drank.
His thoughts were fuzzy. Slowed to a dull hum and coated in blissful ignorance for once.
Thatās why he did this. As an escape from having to confront his emotions. He was fairly certain he had been crying before this.
Now? He just sat on the floor. Staring up at the ceiling like it was going to fall on him.
Even through the haze, those thoughts still found him. Images of St- Scott, popped into his mind, drawing a growl from his speaker.
āSs- Stupid fuckinā bastard.. Good for nothinā deadbeat dad,ā He muttered. Not like anyone could hear him, but he muttered it anyway.
And despite his efforts? His breathing grew ragged again as short, cut-off sobs strangled him. Clawing their way out one way or another.
āWh- Why do I even care anymore? Youāve- YOUāVE BEEN GONE FOR SO LONG! Why should I still care-ā
More sobs. Followed by him grabbing the bottle resting by his side.
CRASH!
With a loud sound that was ample to startle someone who was sober enough to care, the empty whiskey bottle went flying.
Shards of glass shone in the dim light of the room, reflecting in an oddly mesmerizing manner.
Another sniffle.
Christ, he really was pathetic, huh?
Throwing a fit over his dad on a work night. He had better things to be doing. He shouldnāt even be drinking to start with.
Heās a bitch when heās hungover. And being a bitch is bad for business. Meaning, heāll lose money and costumers. Dampening his already awful reputation.
He really needed to think things through before he did them. Not like he has that ability at the moment.
No, no, no. In fact, at the moment? Heās doing the opposite, sprawling himself out on the floor by his bed.
He managed to narrowly avoid the fallen glass as he laid down, tucking his limbs closer to himself just to be sure. Not like heād care if he accidentally cut himself. Heās done worse to himself on purpose, after all.
His chest heaved as he sighed, a ring sounding from his head as it fully settled on the carpeted floor. His receiver fell with it.
He would never break this cycle, huh?
One thought that flickered in his mind as his optics fluttered shut.
Itās unclear what cycle he meant, really. He had quite a few cycles going on in his life.
From the cycle of failed Fazbenders restaurants to the cycle of failed phones. He couldnāt seem to escape them.
Though, my wild guess? He means the cycle of disappointment. The cycle that Abel Brannigan had set into motion ever since he first talked to his dad.
Abel was disappointed in Scott for his inability to run a competent business, Scott was disappointed in himself for.. reasons unknown, Harry and Joe were disappointed in Scott for how he ended up and Chip?
Chip was also disappointed in himself.
Heād let himself down. Heād let his father down. He still had no clue how he did. He just knew.
So? The cycle will continue. The cycle of failing over and over. The cycle of mistakes. And most importantly? His own cycle of this awful coping mechanism. His own personal hell.
