Hi, Lunchies! This story... Gerkins, I don't know what got into me, but it's super dark. Like, really dark. We've got a trigger warning in here for depression, self-harm, and drunkenness. If that's not your cup of tea, please, please take care of yourself!
The stars shone down as a lone figure slunk through the streets, shaking with cold and fear. Tall, pale, with wide, frightened, green eyes, and dark matted hair, the man had the looks of someone who knew they shouldn't even be alive. And yet, here he stood. The more observant passer-by would recognize this man as the same who attempted to dominate the entire planet, just a few weeks before. But, this was New York, and head down, don't-look-strangers-in-the-eye philosophy was the rule.
Loki was alone. Entirely, absolutely solitary. Asgard had cast him out, and he had nowhere to go. Nowhere to be, and nobody to run to. Everyone on this realm would kill him, given the chance, and he had no way to get to any other realm. At the least, it was depressing, but for Loki, it was a horrific nightmare. He was helpless, terrified, and a known criminal in a foreign realm.
His hands shook, and he hugged his arms around his thin body. They were looking for him. He could feel it. He wasn't sure who, but he knew he wasn't safe, here. Discreetly, he turned into an alleyway, and huddled down behind a bin of bottles, curling in on himself for protection. How long he stayed there, he was not sure, but the crippling fear gnawed at his soul. He had to do something. He couldn't just sit there, waiting for fate to come to him.
That was when he noticed that not all the bottles were empty.
At first, that didn't matter, but… then, he had a thought. As helpless as he was, wouldn't it be better to simply… forget?
As he sat there, shaking in a pile of his own miserableness, he gazed up at the cold, unsympathetic stars. Damn Asgard. Damn Odin, Loki couldn't take the fear anymore. Shakily, he reached for the nearest bottle, filled with the alcohol, and pressed it to hi s lips. Immediately, the shadows slunk away, and the world appeared a little brighter. Another swallow, and his shaking stilled. After all, what was there to be afraid of? He was Loki, of Asgard, and he was not to be trifled with. He could defend himself, if anyone dared attack the prince. Of course, nobody would. The first bottle was empty, by now. Honestly, Loki was glad Asgard had left him alone, for once. He didn't need them. All they ever did was laugh at him. He was halfway through the second bottle. He could take care of himself, he'd show Asgard. He hiccupped, suddenly feeling a bit nauseous. Had he already drunk that much?
Maybe… maybe he couldn't actually take care of himself. He didn't even have the self-restraint to stay sober. He couldn't trust himself to make rational decisions, anymore. Maybe Odin was right to throw him out. Maybe Loki really was a failure. Who was he trying to fool? Of course, he was a failure. It was ridiculous to pretend he was anything more than a failure of a frost giant runt. In sudden rage, he threw the bottle in his hand against the wall opposite him, wincing as it shattered, and sprayed glass all over the alleyway. A few shards nicked Loki's face and arms, and the Trickster found the pain somewhat grounding.
Shakily, with a bit of fumbling, due to the alcohol in his stomach, he picked up one of the larger pieces, and cut a gash on his forearm. Immediately, the warm, red blood welled out from the cut, flowing down his arm, and dripping off his elbow onto the concrete ground. Loki watched it flow in a somewhat detached way, as if the blood, the arm, his whole body wasn't his own. Again, he dug the sharp end of the glass into his arm, wincing at the pain, but also, somewhat grateful for it. Pain was something he could control, when everything else was out of his hands.
A small tear slipped down his cheek as he dropped his bloodied arm into his lap, turning his eyes towards the heavens once more. He missed Thor. He missed home. He wanted to go back to Asgard, but there was no way to do so. Numbly, he reached for another bottle, now shaking with sobs. The liquor would help. It would stop the hurt.
Hours later, he lay there wretchedly, covered in vomit, blood, and spilt alcohol. The passers-by hurried past him as he lay there, mumbling to himself, or anyone who would listen of his troubles. They pretended to be better, that, in his place, they would not do the same. They went home to their warm homes and loving families, and never thought twice about the miserable drunk in the alleyway. The stars glittered up in their heavenly heights, cold, unfeeling that they were. Loki eventually quieted, and slipped into a drunken stupor, weak from blood loss and grief.
The nine realms never thought twice about him.
This story brought to you by Michael Jackson and Lindsey Stirling.
TheOnlyHuman.