Chapter Text
He sat on the pier for God knows how long, hands shaking, eyes watering. He wanted to stay, he wanted to care, he wanted to live. But he couldn't bear it. He couldn't bear living when his friend didn't get to, he couldn't bear scaring his little girl, and he couldn't bear the consequences. Shane placed his pale hands down on the wood that was rotting away at the same pace he was, and he breathed. The air was hard, like the glass bottle beside him. The man leaned back under the sheet of fog, allowing himself to be swallowed into the darkness.
Shane woke up a few hours later, a face he couldn't place crowding his vision. "Shane, we thought you— Jas, go back and play with Vincent, I'll be there in a second. You need to be more goddamn careful for Yoba's sake! I'm sick of you moping around like—" She paused to catch her breath. "—like nothing matters to you anymore!" Shane winced. It was true, but the words still stung the same.
"Maybe if you fucked off, then I wouldn't." He regretted the words instantly. Marnie frowned at him, her eyes watery. "Shit, I—" Shane left as quickly as he could manage, downing the half-emptied bottle beside him. He didn't want to screw their relationship up even more. He walked to work, or hell. They were the same.
Every step he took reminded him of how selfish he was, terrifying his child and his aunt. He wasn't even her father, just someone acting instead of someone who wasn't there anymore. Like an understudy, except he drank himself nearly to death every evening and never remembered his role. Shane wished that the 'nearly' wasn't there anymore.
He stacked the bright blue shelves with products he wouldn't (or hoped he wouldn't) live to see bought. Each crate of poorly-labelled items left their marks, the unsanded plastic leaving cuts on the man’s already scarred arms. The items were a blur beneath his hands, his eyes unable to focus on something so useless. The building was almost silent at this time, pass for the ticking of the clock and his breathing. In then out, he reminded himself.
The six-pack of beer fell from his loose grip, shattering onto the linoleum tile. He had dropped to the floor to catch it, but he was too late. He felt like he was always too late. “Shane, you again I see. This is your last warning. Clean it up, and don’t let it happen again. Or there’ll be severe consequences.” Morris almost spat the words, strutting past and intentionally (or at least it seemed intentional to Shane) digging his heel into Shane’s hand. His face flushed red with shame, and he hurried to mop up the mess.
He left two hours late that day. Shane pushed himself through the saloon’s door, looking up to meet Gus’ concerned eyes. “Shane, should you really be drinking? I can get you some soda if you’d prefer.” He frowned, fearing for the health of his patron. He needed the money from his drinking, but having an alive customer was significantly better than a dead one.
Shane ignored his remark. “The usual, and leave me alone.” He took his spot in the corner, leaning against the wall for support. His eyes were dull, shadows of the "could have been".
Gus tapped his shoulder, a frown on the bartender’s usually smiling face. “Shane, are you sure you don’t want something else? I‘ve got your drink here, but—” He snatched the glass out of his hand and turned away. Shane drank it hastily, as if a single second without it would cost him his life. He didn't feel that losing his life was a bad thing.
“Another, please.” The words were almost a whisper, shame staining the man’s words. Shane kept his eyes on the ground, biting into his lip. He heard a sigh as the glass was taken from his hand.
The glass was passed back to him, filled with a somewhat watered-down drink. The man downed the glass, desperate to let the bitter juices flood his body. He needed this, he wanted this, he deserved this, he told himself.
The evening cycled, a cruel game of passing a glass back and forth until someone cracked. Shane's liver wanted to rip itself out of his body, desperate to flee from the pain it was in. He felt the same way. Every drink felt like a few seconds of safety, of freedom, before he plummeted back down. “Shane, how’re you planning to pay for this?” He froze. Shane looked up at Gus, but the older man’s eyes held no anger, no irritation, only concern. Only worry.
“Put it... Put it on my tab. Please.” He shook his head guiltily, clasping onto the fireplace to prevent himself from collapsing onto the floor. He wished that that would happen, if the floor was 1000 feet below him. The bartender nodded and took Shane’s glass to refill it. He didn’t want to be alone any longer than necessary, and as his only company was the drink, he yearned for it.
The night passed, and Shane left only when the other patrons had dispersed. The man's eyes refused to let him place the exit in his mind, instead screaming colours into his brain. He felt for the door, keeping his head down and cursing under his breath. He stumbled out of the building. The Stardrop’s door was left ajar; his hands were trembling too much to shut it.
He walked through the night, every step aching. It was too late for anyone to be around, but Shane felt he was being watched. He wanted to vomit; whether from fear or intoxication, he didn’t know. The man belched, bending over the bench into the bush behind. He was gross. Shane fell onto the bench, digging his nails into his scalp. “FUUUUCK!” The man’s throat threatened to tear, but he didn't care. He only wanted to scream. It was all he could do. Scream and scream and hurt and hurt and hurt until he died. He hoped that was soon. Were he sober, Shane would have noticed Lewis glaring out the window at him, or the lights in all the houses turning on one by one, or the bottle he had shattered on the ground, or Emily walking out the open door to kneel beside him. He wasn't sober. He never was.
He didn't return home that night, instead screaming into the dark until his body gave in.