Jaxon
The glass is cold in my hand, condensation dripping onto the worn bar top as I stare at the amber liquid swirling inside. The bar is dimly lit, reeking of stale beer and old regrets. It’s the kind of place no one asks questions—a hole in the wall where people go to forget. Perfect.
I’m trying to forget too. Except I can’t.
I lift the glass to my lips, the whiskey burning as it goes down. It doesn’t help. Nothing does.
The cut on my hand draws my eyes again. It’s small, just a slice across my palm, but it’s red and raw, refusing to close up. It mocks me. Taunts me.
“f**k,” I mutter, slamming the glass down harder than I mean to. The bartender glances over but doesn’t say a word. Smart guy.
I keep staring at it, the edges of the wound still crusted with blood. It happened this mo
