Alcohol Free

He always said he hated the stuff, always said he would stick with the Faygo. Fruity, carbonated soda tasted better than alcohol which burned the throat when consumed. Why would he bring that unpleasantness to himself? It didn't make a whole lot of sense. Though, he couldn't say he was exactly clean. This commitment was still new for him, not something he had lived by or was taught when he was younger, but rather something he decided on his own. How could he turn down a drink when a fan bought it for him after such a wicked performance? Stuff like that tended to happen when the shows were at a bar. His lady fans were so friendly, buying him drinks, flirting and talking as he sipped. His face would scrunch and his lips would pucker with each taste, but he continued to drink regardless. It would be rude to push the glass away. Normally they would buy those cutesy cocktails, and he didn't mind those. They were colorful, had a fruity taste to distract him from the scorch of booze, and they always seemed to have that tiny umbrella in them.

The drinking came to an abrupt stop after a certain incident, however. He now booked his shows at coffee shops or sometimes he would find a random street corner, open his case, and start playing right there; anything to stay away from those poison beverages. If it were at a bar, he'd either request the fans to not order alcoholic drinks for him or at least order him soda instead. He made his commitment right then and there; he was off the stuff for good.

He remembered it easily; it wasn't a memory that could be forgotten. The night was like any other. It was a pretty good show at a local bar he played at often. Most of the tables were filled, people kept their conversation to a dull roar, and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. He even played two more songs in response to an encore he had received. The gentle strums of his guitar had filled the area, bringing a blanket of warmth over everyone, as if it were tucking the audience in snuggly for bed. Putting the audience to sleep hadn't been his intention though, so he'd quicken those gentle strums, rough them up a bit; give that rhythm a rogue hairdo. He did just that, their eyes widening in curiosity, just like he had intended to do. His nonsense guitar playing was like a tired person trying to stay awake; nodding off, feeling slumber coming over the shoulder, but then the brain sends a shock and that person jolts awake after a few seconds of closed eyes. It was, like, his signature style, he supposed, if that's what something like that was called.

The show had ended well; the applause was mellow but pretty lengthy, meaning they truly liked it. He had smiled, gave a lazy wave, and then returned his instrument friend to its home. With a jump off the make-shift stage, he traveled to the bar. Soft giggles accompanied with clacking heels followed him, which led only one thought in his head. Here come the groupies. Righteous.He sat down on one of the stools, spinning in it playfully until he became dizzy; his chair stopped in front of two girls, dressed in what he presumed to be in fashion or in season or however they determined what to wear for the day. He gave them an inviting smile, which the girls seemed to think was funny, because they giggled more.

They sat down next to next to him, pulling their stools closer to his, and began ordering him drinks. They talked about the show as they sipped at their small cocktails; everything he said seemed to make them giggle. He didn't understand what was so funny, but as long as they were having a good time, he supposed it didn't matter much. They talked about the show, about music, a little about politics, to which he was clueless about and therefore it didn't get very far, and then he started telling some personal stories, which happened to be all about his hot tempered roommate.

"So then he all up and tried to motherfuckin grab his phone from me, but the little guy couldn't even reach! He was jumpin and shit, but he's so motherfuckin short, 'ya know? He got all angry and his cheeks got red, shouting out a string of profanities! Man, 'ya should have heard it!" The girls giggled, right on cue, and smiled at him.

"How can you live with someone like that, Gamzee?" The one on Gamzee's left asked.

"Yeah, if I were you, I'd move out. He's so rude to you!" The one his right commented. Gamzee just smiled, shaking his head.

"Nah, nah, you girlies don't all and motherfuckin get it. He's my best friend; without me he'd be all over the walls, throwing and breaking shit. I'm like…like his complimenting opposite. We're like…hmm…we're like magnets! Motherfuckin magnets, that's it."

"Magnets? I don't get it…"

"Don't you know how magnets work? Opposites motherfukin attract! Our personalities are opposite, but in some freaky, miraculous way, we complement each other," Gamzee explained, his eyes staring intently at the table in order to focus his lofty thoughts.

"I…I think I get it," The girl on his right murmured. The girl on the left nodded her head slowly.

"Yeah, that makes sense!"

"See? Like motherfukin magnets, that's what we are. Maybe I could write a song about that shit," He said with a grin. The girls started giggling once more, commenting and encouraging him to do so.

Their random chatter continued, the theme of their conversations changing frequently. Time passed, shot glasses were piling up, the music gained beat and suddenly the place was thumping with the power of the bass. Probably that Dubstep shit. The makeshift stage had transformed into a dance floor and had people flailing about like idiots on it. Lights from the ceiling circled the floor in fluorescent colors and oblong shapes. Just watching the lights skit across the glossy wood could leave anyone in a trance; send their mind on some trippy journey or something. In fact, it was doing just that for Gamzee. The bass drowned out whatever words the girls beside him were saying, and it rattled his entire body, sending shivers all across him. He liked it, actually. It was almost like a massage, only it was over his entire body. He rested his head upon his arms on the table and closed his eyes, humming to the sound; strangely enough, from the hazy feeling in his brain that had resulted from the cocktails, he thought he could fall asleep right now.

The thought was shattered, however, when he felt himself getting dragged out of his chair. His eyes shot open and darted to whatever it was that was bringing him down. His arm was hooked with one of the girl's arms, pulling him along. At first it looked like she might be grabbing him to take home with her, which Gamzee found cute for a few seconds, but then he noticed he wasn't the only one getting pulled; a young-looking man, short and stout, probably just a few years younger than himself, was pulling on the girl's arm, grinning like some sick monster. His mouth seemed excited as it was moving fast, but the words that came out of it upset Gamzee.

"Come on, honey. Let's dance!" The man slurred, his free hand reaching out to cradle her chin.
"Let go of me, creep!" the girl screeched, slapping his hand away. Right then and there, both the men's faces set into a frown, both for different reasons. He unhooked himself from the girl's grasp, but held firmly onto her hand, straightening himself out; he towered over the little guy.

"Hey, man, let her go. Can't you see she doesn't wanna motherfukin dance?" The man looked over at Gamzee, giving him a sour glare. He let go of the girl's arm and made his way over to Gamzee, standing straight.

"Was I talking to your sorry ass, man? I don't think so!" He spat, jabbing Gamzee in the chest. He glared down at him, releasing his hold on the girl's hand, but gave a little smile to control himself.

"No, you weren't, but I gotta stand up for my friends, 'ya know?" He slapped the man's jabbing finger away. "You seem like you've had a lot of beer, buddy. I can motherfukin smell it reeking off 'ya. Maybe you should all up and head home before you hurt yourself."

He was about to offer to walk him home, but a sudden shock of pain erupted upon his right cheek. He heard the sick slap of skin meeting skin, the horrifying snap from bone hitting bone, and the warm gush of liquid sputtering from between his lips. He staggered back, his head hitting the wood surface of the bar, blacking out for only a moment from such a surprise. He brought a hand to his cheek to steady himself, but retracted it with a hiss from the pain that still surged from it. He looked down at his hand; blood dripped from his fingers.

"You don't have to worry about me. I think you need to worry about yourself!" The man laughed. Gamzee noticed his balled-up fist covered in blood; his blood. It didn't take him long to piece the puzzle up. His brow furrowed into a glare, anger slowly warming up within his body. He could feel the grip on his temper begin to lessen, but he tried to his best to clasp onto it tightly. The goon smirked once he acknowledged the nasty look.

"What's the matter, huh? Did I make the pathetic boy mad? Are 'ya all ruffled up?" He felt a pinch in his chest; it only made him angrier.

"That's a nasty look you got, pal. It's telling me you wanna go." The man hit both of his hands to his chest, emitting a loud 'thump' that was meant to provoke a fight. He wanted one. Gamzee could see he wanted one, but he couldn't let himself do that. "Well, come on! Let's go buddy! You and me! Show me what 'ya got!" Yes, he wanted it bad. Gamzee didn't want it, but the guy was riled up. He wasn't going to let it happen, no matter how angry he got.

"I think I'd rather fucking not-" Gamzee had begun to say, but was cut off when he felt spit hit his forehead. He. Did. Not. Just. Do. That.

"Come on, what's the matter? You some pacifist faggot?" Something within Gamzee broke, like how a string breaks on his guitar. It makes that ear cringing twang and ricochets against his hand, leaving a pulsing welt. Something like that, a string that was desperately holding his anger back, just broke and whipped it harshly.

"Motherfucker," He growled between gritted teeth. With one quick movement, much too quick for him to register himself, his own fist met with the man's cheek, emitting the same sounds and gush of blood.

"You got one hell of a punch, man," the man said, chuckling a bit as he wiped his face. His eyes wandered to the surface of the bar, locking onto a stray bottle of what may have been vodka. "But 'ya gotta do better than that!" He gave a yell, grabbing the bottle and smashing it on the table, breaking it in half; Gamzee's eyes widened as he caught onto what the man was planning. Suddenly a wash of fear quelled his anger for a moment, leaving him cautious and frightened.

"Whoa man, take it-" He began, but was cut off when he felt three lines of searing pain flare up on his face. His eyes squinted momentarily from the pain, his ears cringing from the sizzling he could hear occur in his wounds from the alcohol. He looked around, in shock and dazed as he met the eyes of watchers; was it just him, or did the place suddenly drop dead silent? The music was gone, the chatter was muted, and he could probably make the assumption that everyone had stopped breathing as well. His eyes then wandered to the man, who seemed to be grinning triumphantly. He didn't want to see that, so his sight dropped, landing on the broken bottle in his hands. Blood dripped from the jagged edges, the neck of the bottle clutched tightly in his hand. That was, once again, his blood the bottle. My fucking blood. Ironically, as the thought idly passed in his head, he felt liquid rolling down his cheeks and bridge of his nose. Just from the sight of it, something sudden, something hot, began to boil within his chest. His brow furrowed, despite the pain of doing so, both of his fists balling up so tight that his skin pinched. His feet scuffed loudly across the floor, his line of sight now burning on the man's face. The only thought repeating in his head was, It's not red enough; it's not red enough, it's gotta motherfukin match mine.Whatever fear was left over was now cast aside by scorching rage.

His head was hazy; it felt like he was outside his own body, watching his actions, not remembering any significant, good meaning behind them. His words were choppy, one or two with each harsh punch, words like "You fucker!" and "Motherfucker!" His sentences were short, broken, punctuated with a jab and cough of blood.

"You motherfukin-" Jab "-piece of-" Cough "-no good fucking-" Jab "-son of a-" Cough "bitch!" Jab cough jab.

With every hit, he heard a snap; he remembered wondering if he'll knock all his teeth out. His fists were drenched in blood with each blow; deep down, the thought of the man's blood on his hands had made him sick with joy. He continued to watch himself, feeling his stomach churn from the sight of that grin plastered on his face. This wasn't him, it just wasn't him. He knows that this isn't him. He can't bear to watch another punch, can't bear to hear another curse, can't bear the smell of iron and sight of red. He just wanted to go home, hide under the covers, and sleep for eternity in hopes of forgetting what he had witnessed. Or rather, what he had done.

After a while, his hands began to ache from being balled so tight for so long, or maybe they were hurting from hitting the man's skull so many times; either way, he wasn't going to stop. The people around him must have realized it as well, because he was suddenly jerked away, the man's pathetic, limp body hitting the floor. Surely he must have been unconscious; he wasn't moving or making a sound. The fire within him was suddenly put out as when he felt water wash onto him; the ache from his wounds shot across his face in a frenzy. His eyes squeezed shut for a few moments, enough time for him to realize who he is again, and then they opened; they opened and they widened in fear at the display. The heavy scent of blood hit his nose, riding its way straight to his stomach, causing it to do nauseating flips.

"Jesus, Gamz, what the hell is wrong with you?" a gruff voice asked.

"Yeah, you could have killed him!" Another voice accompanied; his bandmates were the ones that pulled him away. He looked up at them, meeting their concerned faces, then looked back down at the man. He stared at the bloody mess, prayed to whomever it was that listened to prayers that the man would move, but he was too scared to find out. He ripped his arm out of his friend's hands, scrambled himself onto his trembling feet, and made a run for the door.

"I'm sorry…I…I gotta go!" He struggled out. With those words said, his feet rushed him out of the bar, bloody mess and guitar left behind.