Always Again

“Fuck 'em,” I whisper, tilting the last drops of salvation onto my tongue. It burns for just a moment, the spicy warmth fading quickly under the metallic tang of my own blood. I lick my inner cheek tenderly, tongue tracing the ragged lines of ruin carved by own teeth cutting into my flesh on impact. “Fuck 'em and fuck ’em.”

I signal Caz for a re-up, sliding my glass gently in his direction. He nods once, knowingly, obliging with efficient grace. Good ol’ Caz. Doesn’t ask questions, maybe doesn’t care. The perfect company.

I laugh bitterly under my breath, clench my aching jaw, shift again in a futile attempt to reduce the vibrant, pulsating pain cast from my shattered rib. My breaths are shallow, shuddering, heartbeat still too frantic. I slowly rotate my neck, fingers unremittingly tapping the counter, eyes desperately sweeping the dance floor for a source of interest, any distraction.

If I can’t run—can barely move—I’ll drink until I can, or forget that I want to. Whichever comes first. I’ll obscure my senses to override the savage scenario looping just below my consciousness, use libations' slight-of-mind to mute its shrill echoes. To pretend, as if I don’t already know that the worst possible use of my abilities is not using them at all.