His head lifts up from his arms on the bar top. He's not drunk. He's more sober than he's ever been in Hell, drinking water from a flask that he hides in the pocket of a baggy sweater with a phone and things he chooses not to think about. He hasn't even taken a sip from that in the last hour and he certainly has eaten anything, not with pained insides, not with fears that just don't stop even though he's died more than once now and it means nothing.
It feels like there's something disconnected in his brain, and hey, knowing this place, that might be true. Maybe that's the reason he stares blankly, unable to process it as his old amigo, his best friend, the man who had been a brother to him, stands there upon the stage with a guitar in his hand and grey streaks in his hair. (Grey? When did...)
At first, he thinks he doesn't know the song. It's cheery, bright, and for a split stupid second, he could almost be proud the man finally found a scrap of creativity in him to make up something new. But the words come.
He thinks of acid, of burning things, of the blood he's tasted in his teeth every week or so. He thinks of these things because something happens to his heart and in the moment to follow it feels like his insides are boiling, his nerves igniting with something other than pain, and his body shakes with it. He doesn't know when he moves but slowly he makes his way to the stage, past any other patrons, eyes wide, unblinking, and fixed.
Everything that's happened... every scar, every scream torn from his throat... the things that have been done to him and the things he's had to do, turning out his mind, turning out his body, and every single night he's just wanted to hold his daughter even knowing the sick terrible knowledge that he is dead and may not ever hold her again... it all comes down to this. Doesn't?
He's just about in front of the stage, just about at the end of a song he sang every night as lullaby slowly becoming a plea. His lips pull back from his teeth and an animal scream rips from his throat.
He launches himself onto the stage and at De La Cruz, throwing the man to the ground.
I can't believe you'd do this to me I love you I'd die for you - SYG I
It feels like there's something disconnected in his brain, and hey, knowing this place, that might be true. Maybe that's the reason he stares blankly, unable to process it as his old amigo, his best friend, the man who had been a brother to him, stands there upon the stage with a guitar in his hand and grey streaks in his hair. (Grey? When did...)
At first, he thinks he doesn't know the song. It's cheery, bright, and for a split stupid second, he could almost be proud the man finally found a scrap of creativity in him to make up something new. But the words come.
He thinks of acid, of burning things, of the blood he's tasted in his teeth every week or so. He thinks of these things because something happens to his heart and in the moment to follow it feels like his insides are boiling, his nerves igniting with something other than pain, and his body shakes with it. He doesn't know when he moves but slowly he makes his way to the stage, past any other patrons, eyes wide, unblinking, and fixed.
Everything that's happened... every scar, every scream torn from his throat... the things that have been done to him and the things he's had to do, turning out his mind, turning out his body, and every single night he's just wanted to hold his daughter even knowing the sick terrible knowledge that he is dead and may not ever hold her again... it all comes down to this. Doesn't?
He's just about in front of the stage, just about at the end of a song he sang every night as lullaby slowly becoming a plea. His lips pull back from his teeth and an animal scream rips from his throat.
He launches himself onto the stage and at De La Cruz, throwing the man to the ground.