Three weeks ago I was robbed.
The physical heart pain from the loss of someone important pierced through my heart every time I thought about my mother.
The woman who I've inherited my green eyes and copper tinted hair from. She had so much faith in me since a young age and had often encouraged me in my path of development. I remember with sweet pain the first time I came next to the baby grand and pressed my first ever note with the help of my mother. She taught me every basic knowledge of piano music, and in time I've developed from under her nurture.
Elizabeth Diana Platt Masen was forever lost to the skies above.
Through this haze, apart from long periods of alcohol intoxication leading to bloodied lips and bruised knuckles there are never much more to life.
What is a man to do with mountains of money from inheritance when he clear had no joy.
I came to the bars, I drank, I cuss and I swear. I fought and I pained.
Fucking life.
Fucking shitty life.
Forgive me mother. You have raised me well but without you, your son is a broken man.
Feeling like the most pathetic rodent found in a road I turned and face away from the bar.
Some crowded near the pool table, others mind their own business in individual booths, a few peacefully swaying to the soft ballad being played through the speakers and there are the few crouching over the bar, swirling their glasses and grunting as the bitter beverages drowned their misery.
A man just coming through the doors is the wanker James Hunter. We fought just a week ago, and his split lip seemed to have healed but he was still limping. That bastard was lucky that he got away with what got from the last time.
