Paul Levesque walked into Ruby's Bar with a grim expression and a dark heart. It was Sunday and the rusty grey clock in the corner showed 7:00 p.m on it, the hands of it pointing to their designated areas. His brow was soaked in sweat, the showcase of his intense anger. His eyes looked like a chocolate blowfish and his nose was flared upwards like a bull would do when he saw the color red. His hair was wet from the outside rain and it dripped along his mundane, gothic aura clothing.

Ruby's Bar looked the same. It was a pretty big area, somewhat between a stripper joint mixed with an Applebees restaurant. Problem was, you weren't 'Eating good in the neighborhood'. In fact, it's a surprised the damn place was quarantined. The tiles, which used to be a bland cream color, were now chipped off every few feet or so, with the chips lying in the corners of the dark paneled wood walls, which were also chipped. He swore he could see a roach nearby the bar, but he could care less. He sat in a stool, which squeaked and wobbled every time someone would move in the entire place, and stared at Vic, the owner.

Vic was an old man, about 70 years of life. That's what he said anyways; Paul never really bothered to ask. Vic was nice to talk to even though he was a complete and utter slob. He was also a cynic and a narcissist, which made him quite depressing. He was unmarried and he never reproduced, but he did have a Great Dane named Ruby that was always by his side. God knows how old that dog is. Paul really didn't even want to know that. Though the dog and Vic were both staring at him, trying to search for his reason to be glum, Paul didn't feel like sharing. He just wanted a scotch on the rocks. Maybe two. Three. It didn't really matter.

Paul looked at Vic with hollow eyes, making Vic worried—well, as much as the old man could be worried. He wasn't really caring. But, even though he was not a charitable, loving person, Vic took a liking to Paul. Paul was usually energetic with a good demeanor and work ethic behind his bulky frame. Vic liked that.

"Scotch on the rocks." Paul stated, his elbows held against the bar. Reluctantly, Vic made the strong drink. Paul watched him pour it as the dark golden liquid dripped effortlessly out of the bottle and into the small glass with perfect ice cubes already slowly melting. The need for a pain killer that isn't completely toxic was driving Paul to madness. Vic sighed then handed it over, with Paul devouring it in one gulp. It was as if he was in the Sahara Desert and that was the last drink on the planet. He needed the release and numbness that being drunk would give him. He needed that tonight. Well, actually, he would need that feeling for the rest of his life.

Nothing. Nothing at all justifies the past events that have occurred this week, Paul thought to himself. He glared at the empty, disgusting room that reflected his mood perfectly, and he loathed it. He loathed it all. He loathed the floors and the dead cockroach with its legs upright. He loathed Ruby, who was staring at him with the same damn curious eyes. He loathed the blinking, dim lights. He even felt like loathing the hell out of Vic, although he didn't know why. Vic was concerned in a way, as much as he could be concerned anyways. He never really was the caring type.

Neither was Paul. Ever since he was a teenager, Paul was always a rough sort of guy. He got into many fights and had very few friends. He had a quick temper and he was hardworking. He never kept a girlfriend over two weeks, due to the fact that none of them ever satisfied him in any way. When he was young, he had always looked for that one thing in his life that would change him forever. It had happened before. In all the books he read and movies he watched, a troubled guy could be saved. Usually, the troubled guys in the books he read and movies he watched were saved by careers or women. But, since Paul never could pay attention to much besides Math, he never really got anywhere. He was a motorcycle engineer, building bikes for Harley Davidson, which he could proudly announce to the world. Before that, he drove a truck. Before that, he was in the army. And before that, he was a troubled teenager with no home, no nearby parents, a bad attitude, and no money. That doesn't necessarily call for "Man of the Year", but why should Paul care? Now that they are-…

Today was a day that made heaven cry in sorrow and hell laugh in happiness. It was definitely the worst day Paul could ever imagine, but this happened all over the world. It happens every second, minute, hour, day, week, month, and year. It never made any sense, but it happened. It was happening right now, actually.

Another three scotches into the day and Paul's vision is the equivalence of a guy who has smoked too much pot and was looking at a laser light show. He was basically just tripped out. His heart, in all of its misery, smiled in spite of the occurrences of the day. Just what I need, he thought hazily.

Paul was right but yet completely wrong. He didn't need this. He needed to face the fact of life that many people have trouble facing. He didn't need to bury himself in self pity and wallow in a drink brewed from grain that made people drunk off of their asses. And for what? Paul was just going to have a headache in the morning.

Oh how did that morning come…

It was the next day, which meant Paul's location had not changed. Well, his location in his location had changed. Originally, he was upright in one of the damned seats that seemed to never stop moving or squeaking. Today, he was flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, wallowing in grief and throbbing from a headache. He had a flannel shirt draped over him. Vic, he thought to himself. Out of the morbid kindness in his heart, Vic attempted to put a cover on Paul, which was quite silly. Paul was in a black suit that was loosened up at the jacket and loosened buttons hung from the main shirt. There was no tie and his pants hung due to the lack of a belt to keep them up.

He grumbled to his feet and he heard a voice.

"Rough night?" the woman said in a low chuckle. He smiled weakly once he saw who was speaking. He didn't really catch her face, but he did look at her dark curls. He sat beside her, not knowing any different. What else could he do?

"You have no idea," he huffed out in a weak attempt to put a joking tone into his voice. She chuckled again, stirred what was in her cup with a spoon, and spoke again.

"Well, I probably could. All you would have to do is tell me, you know."

"Yes, I know."

A long pause filled the air before she spoke again, this time with a bit of insistence.

"So, what is bothering you?"

"My wife left me."

"Oh? I'm sorry…"

"So am I…" he trailed off, not really knowing what to say. What can you say? 'No, its fine. We've only spent years together. No worries. I'll find a new one.'

"You must've really loved her." she said, chuckling under her breath. He didn't bother looking at her.

"Why do you say that?"

"I'm assuming that's her name tattooed on your hand?"

He looked on his hand and his face grew morose and his eyes dropped. He had forgotten about that. Her name was right there on his skin in elegant cursive. He sighed and hid his hand under his suit sleeve, trying to forget.

"It is." He stated. The stranger nodded.

"Well, the way you're acting you seriously loved her."

"I do…"

"Behind every couple, there is a love story waiting to be told, you know." She said, sipping out of her glass. Paul paused and glanced over at the stranger, whose face had been dimmed from the lights. Her skin was dark though. Why did she want to know about him and his wife?

"What's your point?"

"I want to hear it."

"Why is that?" Paul questioned, sipping the glass of water Vic had left on the bar for him whenever he got up.

"Because, by the way you act, you won't be on the Earth much longer to tell it. And you know what they all say. Every woman loves a good love story." She said. Paul could hear the smile in her voice. He pondered it a minute, still stating questions in his mind, but he shrugged his shoulders. Meh, what the hell, he thought to himself.

He stretched and took another sip of water, "Where do you want me to start this story?"

"Where all good stories start. The beginning."

He struggled to remember for a moment, trying to figure out where to start. He shrugged again and decided to start the story from the time when he was a teenager. A scary, angry teenager with an abyss of hate in his heart. He was going to start off at his beginning because he knew that, in order to fully understand a story, you had to know the two parts that made up the story.

With another sip of water, he began.

"It was around an entire decade ago….I was 16…"