Disclaimer: I own nothing. Title belongs to Coheed and Cambria.
Author's Note: Angst at its best.
He brought the glass down with such force on the old wooden table that within an instant he could see thin lines creeping their way up it's sides. It crumbled within his grasp, and he released the shards, staring at the droplets of whiskey running down his hand.
It was his favorite glass.
He almost laughed at the realization that he had broken it. He almost laughed at the irony of everything, how he was here, sitting at the same table, in the same place, mourning the same person for the second time in his life. He almost laughed when he thought of the shattered glass.
He almost laughed, but he didn't.
He had come to a point where he didn't think he was capable of anything anymore. He certainly could not laugh, when he could not even bring himself to cry. Crying was futile. Crying ended only in a sore throat and swollen eyes and a bitter taste left in one's mouth. Crying did not ease pain or lessen guilt.
He almost cried, but he didn't.
He absentmindedly twirled a piece of glass between his fingers, marveling at how the light beamed off the clear sliver and bounced off the walls, creating swirls of dancing shadows in the corners. He dragged the thin piece across his fingertip, watching the thin stream of blood appear. He wondered momentarily why he felt no pain.
He decided it was because he was already dead.
Funny, how one could be the last one standing, yet dead, all at the same time. Funny how he survived, yet he was no longer living. Funny how he would always be alone, and would never again hear a barking laugh or see the dark brown eyes hidden behind spectacles or smell the fragrance she used to wash her long red hair. It was funny, all in all, that his life had amounted to nothing, how he sat in dirty robes with no family or friends, and passed the minutes by drinking whiskey and playing with glass. It was funny.
He almost laughed.
He brought the glass down with such force on the old wooden table that within an instant he could see thin lines creeping their way up it's sides. It crumbled within his grasp, and he released the shards, staring at the droplets of whiskey running down his hand.
It was his favorite glass.
He almost laughed at the realization that he had broken it. He almost laughed at the irony of everything, how he was here, sitting at the same table, in the same place, mourning the same person for the second time in his life. He almost laughed when he thought of the shattered glass.
He almost laughed, but he didn't.
He had come to a point where he didn't think he was capable of anything anymore. He certainly could not laugh, when he could not even bring himself to cry. Crying was futile. Crying ended only in a sore throat and swollen eyes and a bitter taste left in one's mouth. Crying did not ease pain or lessen guilt.
He almost cried, but he didn't.
He absentmindedly twirled a piece of glass between his fingers, marveling at how the light beamed off the clear sliver and bounced off the walls, creating swirls of dancing shadows in the corners. He dragged the thin piece across his fingertip, watching the thin stream of blood appear. He wondered momentarily why he felt no pain.
He decided it was because he was already dead.
Funny, how one could be the last one standing, yet dead, all at the same time. Funny how he survived, yet he was no longer living. Funny how he would always be alone, and would never again hear a barking laugh or see the dark brown eyes hidden behind spectacles or smell the fragrance she used to wash her long red hair. It was funny, all in all, that his life had amounted to nothing, how he sat in dirty robes with no family or friends, and passed the minutes by drinking whiskey and playing with glass. It was funny.
He almost laughed.