A/N: Not much to say about this. It's not particularly good, but I figured I should upload it anyway.
- - - -
He sees things outside the glass nearly every day. They're not real, and he knows this, which is why he can continue to look. If they were real… It isn't, so he can't allow himself to think about the ifs. Everything around him is a dream, and only a dream.
Today, the window shows the same barren wasteland as always. The street before him shows nothing of interest, save for a trail of what he hopes isn't blood. The line curves beyond the edge of the window-frame. It's not an unusual sight, so he puts it from his mind, takes another swig of his drink, and goes back to sleep.
Morning. The trail of blood runs two ways now, but it is no reason for concern. What causes him to set down the bottle is the steady cacophony of 'thud's at the back door. He sighs, and watches the cloud of vapor that follows before standing. Clumsily, he hauls the rust-colored crowbar off of the bar counter, and limps to the source of the noise. The door is smothered with the wooden scraps of what was once a chair, yet it trembles dangerously with every thump.
"Ay, Marion, I'm still not lettin' you in." The thuds continue. They form a steady cacophony that resounds in his ears, chiseling themselves into his brain until he can think no more. Mindless warbling fills the air as the barricade is ripped away, and by the time it has been torn apart he can't tell who is screaming louder.
Time passes. He kneels in the fog, breathing heavily as he stares at the concrete. The redness is everywhere; his hands, his clothing, the very ground beneath him. He screams once into the cloud, shrilly. It doesn't matter that the noise will attract more of the creatures, because they do not exist. It's all just a dream, but he's not allowed to wake up yet.
- - -
There's dew on his eyelids. He slept through the day on reddened concrete, the back door swinging open. He takes it as proof that everything around him is the dream he's believed it to be all this time. After all, dreams don't hurt. There are a few moments of silence, in which he kneels and gazes out at the fog. An hour passes, and the door is swung shut behind him as he retreats back into the bar. He leaves the door without a barricade this time, but still locks the door.
The drink he left on the table last night is still on the counter, and still cool to his surprise. The chill air must have kept it this way, he thinks as he takes a swig. He winces, and sits down on the barstool as dizziness enters his mind. There is a beat of silence, and he vomits blood onto the floor. His bloodshot eyes find their way to the bottle, which has been knocked over and is spilling out its black contents. The red and the black mix together to form the same rusty hue that he sees everywhere else.
He passes out among the brackish liquid, and does not hear the thudding as it starts again at the door.
- - -
When he wakes, it is colder than usual. The door squeaks as it swings on its one remaining hinge, scraping across the wood scraps littering the floor. He groans as he forces his eyelids to open. The rust-color is on the walls now, and he is sure that if he looks down at himself it will be there as well. There is a loud crack as he hauls himself up to the counter, and more snaps resound when he settles down onto the barstool. He can't feel his lower body, and he doesn't realize the reason why until he starts to cough up blood. His legs are mangled, and he doesn't want to analyze the damage any further up than that.
He sighs and grabs the bottle, which has been filled and put in its proper place. He grins as he gazes into the clouded glass, and a single drop of blood falls from his lips.
"Cheers, Marion." He gestures to the corpse beside him, which has also been mutilated, and manages to take a swig before his head smacks against the counter, and he knows no more.