Stop.

A shake of the head. A bottle reaches slightly smiling lips. A hot poker moustache graces brown glass.

It's not funny! Stop!

The liquids are swallowed and the smile falls. It had no business being in such a place anyway, a place that was so dirty and ruined and disgusting and-

Seth, I'm serious! Stop it, this isn't funny!

-undeserving. Calloused hands bring the bottle back up to a hungry mouth that is afraid it might vomit if it doesn't stop consuming.

N-no! Seth I'll tell! Seth stop this isn't-

The hands shake a little and so the empty bottle ends up back on the table. Suddenly a sweating bottle rushes to replace the first. Or fifth. The mouth doesn't keep track anymore. The mouth stopped keeping track a long, long time ago.

Seth, fuck off! Get off me Seth I can't-

Cheeks go white and trembling fingers grip the bottle like a lifeline. The mouth starts consuming again.

Seth! Seth stop I- Please!

And the soul continues hating itself.