Okay, we're going a little darker with this one...
Shadow
It took a surprising amount of effort for Logan to open his eyes, and when he finally did pry them open, the world around him was blurry. His head was pounding, his jaw felt like he'd got ten rounds with Mike Tyson, and as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows, his stomach rolled and a wave of nausea rose up in his throat.
"Fuck." He dropped back down onto the mattress, covering his eyes with one hand as the other hand clutched his stomach.
Rubbing his eyes, he tried opening them again. This time, his surroundings came into focus and he frowned. The bed he was lying in, while comfortable, was completely unfamiliar... as was the room around him.
Where the hell am I?
"Mornin', sleepyhead," came a voice from his left and his head whipped in the direction of it.
In the doorway to what he could only assume was an en-suite bathroom, stood a tall, slim brunette. She was clad in a tank top and boy shorts and was holding a toothbrush in one hand.
"What...?" he started slowly, his mind still fuzzy. "Where—I mean, who…?"
She gave a shrug, like she was expecting his confusion. "I'm guessing, from that reaction, you don't remember last night?"
He frowned, bringing a hand to his throbbing jaw. "What happened?"
"Ah, well, we met in a bar downtown," she explains. "After a few drinks, we came back to my place… but not before you decided to defend my honour when some big, burly drunk tried to take advantage of me."
"Aw, fuck," he mumbled again. "Uh, did we…?"
The girl smirked. "Uh, huh. You were very much intent on showing me just how a lady should be treated."
"Right." He closed his eyes. "Great."
"Oh, you were," she replied, a slow smile spreading across her face.
He could barely remember any of it. Of course, that might have something to do with the copious amounts of alcohol he'd consumed… not to mention the drugs.
Nausea rose up again and he felt the tell-tale prick of tears in his eyes. How pathetic was it that his first thought these days, after doing something stupid and reckless, was always:
What would Veronica think?
He was getting out of control, he knew that. He just didn't know what to do about it; didn't know how to rein it in, how to function, how to cope without the constant chemical stimulation.
Dick kept telling him he was becoming a shadow of his former self, and though he'd been dismissing the claim as ridiculous, he knew his friend was right.
Then again, what did it matter?
He was just a shadow now.
No one cared about shadows.
