mrpeas

He sits on the four legged stool at the bar; His hat is imprinted with bright yellow letters and stained with the salt of past years, not close to the sweat he let run in combat, but this will do. His vain tethered hand grips the glass tightly and shakes very little over the perspiring water droplets of the dark poison. His eyes are half shut and dark, his mind is elsewhere, years back perhaps, replaying a scene he cant escape. The bottom of his eye lids where the pink skin meets the glossy liquid of the eye often fills with a pool of soft water but is quickly drained like a bathroom tub, he answers the pool with a raspy broken voice, "Not today" and pours the poison into the back of his throat and cringes- not because it is to strong; because it is what is expected. A normal man would cringe or cough at the Liquor hitting his throat, but not him. He is not normal. He will never truly laugh at a joke, or feel your pain of a lost loved one. His pain runs deeper, deeper than your so called understanding. I see this man, and I see my future. My right of passage. You may feel bad for this man, but I see the truth. The ability to not hide behind society. I take my place beside him at the bar and order a rum... I take my drink, swallow and cringe for society... I look at him and nod. He nods back we understand each other.