Damien Shaw.
“I fucking hate you and I never wanna see you again. Please Damien, for my sake, stay away from me. Go away and never come back.”
I sprint through the darkness of the streets as Imogene’s words circles around and around my mind. I’ve always thought that being away from Imogene for three years was the greatest pain I would ever have to endure. It had changed me, fundamentally changed me. But this ... this...
Falling forward, crippled by the pain in my stomach, I roar into the darkness of the empty park. Imogene’s face flashes into my mind’s eye. Her perfect damn face as she stepped into the evening tonight. Her smiling face as she danced with that man I so much despise, and that smile fading from her lips when her eyes found mine.
I saw the devastation flash across her face, she hates me that much.
I get into my car and drive to a local bar. I just need a drink—no, several drinks—to drown out the thoughts that are eating me alive from the inside out.
I head inside. The bar is dimly lit, with a haze of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. A jukebox in the corner is playing some old country song, and a few people are scattered around, nursing drinks and minding their own business. It’s the kind of place where you can disappear, and right now, that’s exactly what I want to do.
I find a booth in the back, away from the small crowd gathered near the bar. The leather seat creaks as I slide in, and I immediately flag down a waitress. She’s got tired eyes and a nametag that reads “Dolly,” and I don’t waste any time ordering.
“Whiskey, neat,” I say before she can even ask what I want.
Dolly gives me a nod and heads off to the bar, and I rest my head against the back of the booth, closing my eyes for a moment. The noise in the bar is a low hum, and it’s oddly soothing, like white noise drowning out the chaos in my head.
When the drinks arrive, I waste no time in downing the first shot of whiskey, feeling the burn as it slides down my throat. It’s a good burn, though—one that chases away the lingering ache in my chest, if only for a moment.
I pour another shot, then gulp down. After the sixth shot, the numbness finally starts to take over. The pain in my chest dulls to a faint throb, and the noise in my head quiets to a low murmur. I set the glass down and stare at the worn wood of the table, tracing the lines and scratches with my finger.
Then I hear footsteps approach my booth. I raise my head to stare at who it is. Breonna. At this point, I might conclude this woman always has me followed because how does she always manage to know my whereabouts?
She sits across me with that pitying parental look. “I thought we’ve grown past getting drunk to escape reality.”
“She hates me.” I finally say, my voice barely above a whisper. “She never wants to see me again.”
Breonna doesn’t respond right away, just watches me with those steady eyes of hers. “What are you gonna do now?”
I laugh, but it comes out bitter and hollow. “I’m an idiot. How could I have thought she would accept me back after all these years? After the way I treated her?”
“You’re not an idiot, Damien,” Breonna says. “But you gotta try harder.”
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