Hello again! I hope you're all enjoying this fic as much as I am.
Warnings for this chapter: very angsty, contains graphic descriptions of violence, alcohol consumption.
I walked out of the apartment building already prepared for a fight. I never took any valuables with me except for a few dollars in my pocket. I never wore my glasses, didn't want to break or lose them. Clad in more comfortable clothing than my regular jeans and hoodies with a jacket, I was ready for the night, striding along the dark streets with a determined expression on my face.
I found myself striding over the Arroyo Seco on Colorado Street Bridge. I focused on my path, refusing to think about her, about them. So engaged was I with concentrating on my surroundings and movements that it felt as if only a few minutes have passed since my departure from the apartment building, yet there I was, standing in front of some run-down pub.
It was a rickety, old building, with paint peeling off the walls, grass growing out of the cracks on it's surface, and windowpanes barely attached to their hinges. The clatter of beer jugs and the muffled sound of people conversing filled my ears as I set my eyes and straightened my back. I needed this. I needed to get my mind off of things, to revel in the luxury of a void-filled mind.
I pushed the dark wood door open and strode towards the bartender, settling on one of the stools arranged alongside the counter. Taking my order of a pint of beer and a glass of whiskey, he turned away from me and I took my time to take in the place.
A retro jukebox sat forgotten in the corner closest to me, the wall behind it adjourned with posters and pictures. The wall behind the bartender was lined with old glasses, some chipped, some taking on an opaque hue after decades of use, dulled from the rough hands of regulars. The place had a musty smell and it felt as if I had traveled back at least 30 years in time.
Thanking the jug and the glass that were slid in front of me, I wondered about time travel. I wondered what I'd do, were I to be offered a chance to travel in time. I thought about Penny, about fixing our relationship, righting the wrongs I could've done differently. I came to the conclusion that, though it might hinder a possible breakup, we never really stood a chance anyway. She was beautiful, talented and had an air about her that made me think of angels. She lit up her surroundings wherever she went, her confident and charismatic smile melting away my insides whenever our eyes met. She contrasted me, my lack of confidence and social skills. I was filled with self-hatred and red-hot anger towards anyone and everyone, most of all myself. But Penny, she was so loving and understanding; I sometimes felt as though I were only imagining her, for she was so perfect.
My jug was only part-way filled now and I dipped my head slightly to gaze at the beads of condensation gathering on the glass.
During my relationship with Penny, I often felt like she was only humouring me. That one day I'd wake up to see her grinning in my face with a camera to yell 'Gotcha!' and then walk away like it all never happened. And when the day of our breakup finally came, I barely reacted. I saw it coming. It did, of course, hurt more than any of the beatings I've ever received. And that is exactly why I didn't react, because it hurt so much my mind was blissfully devoid of any thoughts or emotions. I just stared at her and nodded, then went back to my apartment.
Continuing on my train of thoughts filled with time travelling, I wondered how many years I'd have to go back to repair the horrible excuse for a life which I had. High school? And then what would I do? Tell the thick-headed bullies that I'd rather they don't humiliate me in front of the whole school or beat me senseless? Or would I have to go back to primary school, to warn my younger self to hastily start working on his social skills so I wouldn't end up an outcast? To kindergarten, when I first realised that the disdainful looks I received from my teachers and the everyday ridicule my peers put me through all boiled down to having a neglectful and psychologically abusive mother? I would've turned out different, had she not been so focused on doing nothing but conducting experiments on me, had she not been so distant and cruel.
I couldn't quite remember specific images, and I didn't strain my mind either. I didn't want to relive them or to even think of them, but, alas, it was too late for that.
Though the memories were always hazy and seemed far away, the emotions connected to my life events had always been very heated and overwhelming. Just the thought of my childhood and my mother made me fill up with red-hot anger and I had to suppress a growl.
Deciding it was time to finish what I came here for in the first place, I looked around, searching the place for potential brawlers. Just as I turned my head around, I spotted two men gathering their belongings and preparing to depart. One of them was very tall, above 6 feet, and wore a flannel shirt with a baseball cap, while the other was slightly smaller but still taller than me and had an unlit cigarette poking out of his mouth. A woman was waiting for them next to the table, already in her jacket. She seemed quite drunk, leaning heavily on the taller man for support while giggling childishly.
Turning back to my glass of whiskey, I hid an eager smirk behind the rim of the glass before downing it all in one go and fumbling for a few dollars in my pocket. When I stood to leave, they had already left so I went after them, scanning the street.
I wasn't quite fond of having to drag women into fights. I normally avoided getting them anywhere near the war zone, but this time I couldn't contain myself. I needed to punch someone and be punched in exchange.
As it was, I've known both from personal experience and from social experiments that drunk men were most prone to brawl when a woman was involved. Nobody would take it nicely if their girlfriend was insulted or harassed by a stranger, and drunk men were emboldened by the alcohol in their veins and the belief that their peers would approve of them defending their lady.
I jogged after them, grabbing her arm and turning her towards me. Boy, did I hate myself then. But I buried that deep in my conscious for now and pressed on with my plan, not really able to turn back now.
"Hey," I started, already knowing how much I would hate myself the next day for making a woman uncomfortable. "Let me buy you a drink, you must be tired of these two bastards," the insult sounded lame but I knew it would work, for the men were drunk and tensed as soon as I grabbed her arm.
The taller bloke's expression turned into an angry scowl and he stepped forward, moving his hands to block the woman from my reach.
"Geroff her b'fore I send you to your grave, Shorty!" Ah, bullseye. I was sure they had something going on, maybe not a full-on relationship, but definitely something more than friendship, and his reaction confirmed my assumptions.
"Not before buying the lady a drink," I said, releasing her arm and squaring up. I saw the other bloke move her a few metres away from us and I was silently thanking him for thinking of her safety first.
"You ain't got no business with her, y'hear me? She's taken," he growled the last two words in a strange manner while poking his index finger into my chest.
"She sure will be once you let me introduce myself to her," I said, my lips curling in barely restrained anger.
He slapped me across my face and that was all that I needed to finally release the utter rage boiling inside me, making me see red and white. With a right cross to his eye I stepped forward, not leaving him any time to react before I grabbed a fistful of his shirt, brought his tall frame closer to me and bashed in his nose with my forehead.
As he stumbled backwards, clutching at his face, the other man threw himself at me, hands on my throat. I let him squeeze my neck for a moment, taking pleasure in the pain, before pressing my thumbs into his eye sockets. I didn't use enough force to gauge them out, but it made him release my neck, allowing me to gulp down a few painful breaths.
The taller bloke, his face and shirt smeared with blood dripping from his nose, punched my ribs, sending pain searing through my right side. I kicked at his thigh, hitting a nerve and leaving his leg numb for a few seconds.
As the two of them rounded up on me, all three of us fairly bruised and bloodied by then, I heard the woman screech, "Leave him alone Drew, he's not worth it! Let's get away from here."
The taller man, Drew, looked over his shoulder at her and thought for a second before turning back to me with a snarl and one last punch to my left cheekbone.
"If I ever catch you harassing women again, I'll make sure it'll be the last thing you do," he spat, his face just inches from mine.
I nodded, deciding I've had enough for the night. I didn't want to raise suspicion at work or around the gang with more severe bruises or even broken bones than I already possessed.
They retreated, eyeing me with distrust and anger, and I watched as the three of them hurried down the lane to be engulfed by the darkness of the night.
Straightening my clothes and dusting myself off, I spun on my heel, heading back home.
Fumbling with my keys in the lock, I silently pushed the door open to the apartment, hoping against hope that Sheldon would be sound asleep by then in his bedroom.
Tiptoeing into my bedroom to grab a pair of clean trunks and a shirt before setting of to the bathroom to clean up.
I pulled off my hoodie and T-shirt over my head and looked into the mirror. My lip was bleeding from the inside, red droplets sputtered around my face and neck. There were dark bruises already forming around my throat and I had to suppress a smirk as I thought of the grotesque necklace that would adorn my skin for the following days. A small red blotch marked my left cheekbone; a reminder of the bloke's last strike. I lifted a finger to it, prodding lightly to determine how visible it'd become by the next morning. My ribs were tender and slightly bruised, but thankfully not broken. That'd raise a lot of suspicion.
I stepped into the tub, letting hot water run over my skin, wash away the filth that was both there and imagined at the same time. Red-tinted water pooling at my feet, I closed my eyes and lifted my head towards the stream of water to let the droplets roll down my face.
I was numb once again. The liberating feeling of having no intrusive thoughts engulfed me, gave me more comfort than I've ever received from anyone. I concentrated on the stinging pain in my cheeks and lips, the burning in my throat and the dull ache in my chest. Whether it was the fault of bruised ribs or broken soul, I could not determine, nor did I feel the need to.
I felt filthy. I scrubbed my skin until it turned raw, red blotches adorning my body. It wasn't enough, it was never enough. The lingering sensation of fists colliding, hands gripping, boot-clad feet kicking settled on my skin, never leaving, never ceasing.
Stepping out of the tub, I toweled myself quickly before brushing my teeth and opening up the mirror cabinet and scanning our medicines and remedies. After making sure my cheek and neck were covered in a reasonable amount of Arnica cream, I headed back to my bedroom only to toss around on my bed for the rest of the night.
And here we have another chapter! I'm already sooo excited to post the following chapters but, alas, it takes quite some time to accurately write down the ideas that I have. Take care!