Curt Wilde sat at a small table, at a small bar, in a small town. The smoke
from his cigarette wafted over his head, creating a nice cocoon in which he
could drown in his own personal sorrows. The empty beer bottles were
scattered in front of him - Heineken. Truthfully he hated the shit but in
this hole of a place it was that or Budweiser and at least Heineken had
some vague taste, unlike the piss that Budweiser was.
With a shaking hand, he brought the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled. He had lost count long ago of the beers and the cigarettes. What was the point in counting them anyway? There was no fucking point in anything anymore.
He laughed slightly to himself. Those were almost the exact words he had said to Mandy a few night ago. She had wanted him to stay in London. Near Brian. Near her. He had laughed her off and boarded the next plane for America. So where was he now? Some shit fucking town in the middle of bloody no where. And doing what? Trying to drink himself into an early grave. That or smoke himself into one.
Curt honestly had no idea why he came back here. To Michigan and supposedly his family. A family that he hadn't seen in almost 15 years. Maybe even 20. Did he honestly expect them to welcome him with open arms? Truthfully, he didn't. It was probably some kind of desperate desire for everyone he had ever known to kick him out. Maybe he was just going crazy.
Some fucker went up to the jukebox in the corner and threw in some money. And low and behold what came out? The Ballad of Maxwell Demon. There was some sort of sick perversion in that. He debated whether or not to just walk out or not but there was something that made him stay. Maybe it was that glimpse of the past, of a time when he, and Brian, had been happy. Or a little bit before that. Whatever. The fucking timeframe didn't matter.
Speaking of time. he looked up at the clock. "Fucking 1:30," he muttered. The bar closed at 2 - the latest one open around here. He really didn't want to have to figure out what he was going to do when it did in fact close. Go back to the airport and catch the next fucking plane to Heathrow? Fuck.
He reached for his Heineken and polished it off. Well, he couldn't sleep in the bar and there was no way he was sleeping in the woods. He shrugged. He had money, he could go pay the fair to get him back to civilization and go to a Marriott. Honestly? He wanted to go back to London, right than at that moment. To go to Brian. To fucking apologize for all the shit. all of it. But it probably didn't matter. No matter how much groveling, no matter how much apologizing, it was fucking over. There was a finality to all of it that frankly disturbed him.
Where was he suppose to go now without Brian? It had never occurred to him how much his live truly revolved around Brian. If Brian wanted to go somewhere, they went somewhere. If Brian wanted to cut an LP, they cut an LP. If Brian wanted to eat, they ate. If Brian. Well, now there was no Brian.
With a shaking hand, he brought the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled. He had lost count long ago of the beers and the cigarettes. What was the point in counting them anyway? There was no fucking point in anything anymore.
He laughed slightly to himself. Those were almost the exact words he had said to Mandy a few night ago. She had wanted him to stay in London. Near Brian. Near her. He had laughed her off and boarded the next plane for America. So where was he now? Some shit fucking town in the middle of bloody no where. And doing what? Trying to drink himself into an early grave. That or smoke himself into one.
Curt honestly had no idea why he came back here. To Michigan and supposedly his family. A family that he hadn't seen in almost 15 years. Maybe even 20. Did he honestly expect them to welcome him with open arms? Truthfully, he didn't. It was probably some kind of desperate desire for everyone he had ever known to kick him out. Maybe he was just going crazy.
Some fucker went up to the jukebox in the corner and threw in some money. And low and behold what came out? The Ballad of Maxwell Demon. There was some sort of sick perversion in that. He debated whether or not to just walk out or not but there was something that made him stay. Maybe it was that glimpse of the past, of a time when he, and Brian, had been happy. Or a little bit before that. Whatever. The fucking timeframe didn't matter.
Speaking of time. he looked up at the clock. "Fucking 1:30," he muttered. The bar closed at 2 - the latest one open around here. He really didn't want to have to figure out what he was going to do when it did in fact close. Go back to the airport and catch the next fucking plane to Heathrow? Fuck.
He reached for his Heineken and polished it off. Well, he couldn't sleep in the bar and there was no way he was sleeping in the woods. He shrugged. He had money, he could go pay the fair to get him back to civilization and go to a Marriott. Honestly? He wanted to go back to London, right than at that moment. To go to Brian. To fucking apologize for all the shit. all of it. But it probably didn't matter. No matter how much groveling, no matter how much apologizing, it was fucking over. There was a finality to all of it that frankly disturbed him.
Where was he suppose to go now without Brian? It had never occurred to him how much his live truly revolved around Brian. If Brian wanted to go somewhere, they went somewhere. If Brian wanted to cut an LP, they cut an LP. If Brian wanted to eat, they ate. If Brian. Well, now there was no Brian.