#keptlast

THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO.          he would spit this between the grit of his teeth if he thought she deserved it.          if he thought it would make this pain  manageable.          it’s been said that  rage  is an anesthetic,     but what happens when all that anger bleeds dry  ?          what happens when you’re made to feel the  hurt,     raw and festering and split open to the bone  ?

it’s the anniversary of his mother’s death.          he uses this day as an excuse to fall apart,     and pull himself back together.          he drinks until he can’t feel the  loss  anymore.          liquor burns in the back of his throat when he finally look up from the empty glass to level her eye,     drunken gaze at half - mast.          his vision is  bleary,     and if he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror,     he would find the weary face of his  father  staring back.

❛          stay with me tonight.          ❜

death has been part of his world since the moment he was pushed from the womb.          most nights,     he’s numb to it.          he does not  feel  for travelers in the way he feels for his own and he cannot  empathise  with their pain.          or maybe he can,     but chooses not to.

maybe it’s just easier to drown his sorrows than face them.

THERE’S AN OLD GAME HE USED TO PLAY      when he was younger,    that trick where you fixate on your reflection for so long that it stops looking like   you.    starts to slide out of focus and into some dark,    ugly,    disconnected thing.    he would risk a glance in the cloudy mirror above the bar,    if he thought that’s what she meant.    it’s not.

it’s worth noting that the glass isn’t clear,    isn’t as reflective as it should be    ;    worth noting that there’s only one small mirror in his motel room that looks the same.    that the first time his eyes strayed to it,    in passing,    he felt the heat of a breath on the nape of his neck that didn’t belong to him.

‘      that’s a little twisted.      ’

idly,    he drains the rest of his beer in two slow swallows.    his third in succession,    three shots of whiskey before that.    the back of his throat burns faintly and   warmth   pools in the pit of his stomach,    chasing unease like dawn chases darkness when it crests the horizon.    but dawn is dark here,    too    —    here in this place without a name.    this place that’s nowhere.

his vision’s starting to warp and skew at the edges.    it’s at eighty percent,    he thinks,    which is fine,    because the motel is close and he can remember which room he’s in.

for now,    anyway.

gaze cuts to the bartender at half - mast,    and he nudges the empty beer bottle in her direction.    a prompt,    or an invitation to cut him off.    he isn’t sure.    isn’t rooting for one or the other.

‘      i don’t look in a lot of mirrors,    hermosa.    nothing i haven’t seen before.      ’