The tavern was alive with noise—laughter, the clatter of mugs, the hum of a minstrel’s tune in the corner—but Wyatt barely noticed. His world had narrowed to the amber liquid in his glass and the ache in his chest that no amount of ale seemed to dull.
He leaned heavily against the bar, his hat tipped low over his face, casting shadows that hid the storm brewing behind his tired eyes. The bartender slid another drink his way without a word; this wasn’t the first time Wyatt had nursed his regrets here, and it wouldn’t be the last.
He picked up the glass, swirling the contents absently as he stared into it like the answer to all his troubles might be hiding in the bottom. His voice, low and rough like the scrape of boots on gravel, broke through the din around him.
He took a long sip, the burn in his throat a poor substitute for the fire in his chest. Wyatt shook his head, a humorless chuckle slipping past his lips.
The bartender raised an eyebrow, but Wyatt waved him off before draining his glass. He set it down with a heavy thunk, gesturing for another. As the barkeep refilled his drink, Wyatt muttered to himself, his words half-slurred and coated in bitterness.
He tipped his hat back slightly, just enough to let the light catch the smirk tugging at his lips—a crooked, self-deprecating thing. Wyatt raised his glass in a mock toast, his voice a little louder now, though the melancholy never left.
He drank deeply, setting the glass down again and letting his head hang low. For all the bravado and wit Wyatt carried in spades, it was clear he was a man unraveling, one drink at a time. The noise of the tavern carried on, indifferent to his spiral, leaving him to wrestle with his ghosts in the haze of ale and dim lantern light.
@Rosalie Rutherford
He leaned heavily against the bar, his hat tipped low over his face, casting shadows that hid the storm brewing behind his tired eyes. The bartender slid another drink his way without a word; this wasn’t the first time Wyatt had nursed his regrets here, and it wouldn’t be the last.
He picked up the glass, swirling the contents absently as he stared into it like the answer to all his troubles might be hiding in the bottom. His voice, low and rough like the scrape of boots on gravel, broke through the din around him.
Funny thing about a man’s shadow... follows you everywhere, don’t it? No matter how fast you run or how deep you dig yourself in, there it is. Just... starin’ back.
He took a long sip, the burn in his throat a poor substitute for the fire in his chest. Wyatt shook his head, a humorless chuckle slipping past his lips.
Spent years thinkin’ I was somethin’. Tough guy with a gun, no ties, no cares. Thought the past couldn’t touch me, but turns out it ain’t so easy to outrun the devil when you’ve been ridin’ shotgun with him.
The bartender raised an eyebrow, but Wyatt waved him off before draining his glass. He set it down with a heavy thunk, gesturing for another. As the barkeep refilled his drink, Wyatt muttered to himself, his words half-slurred and coated in bitterness.
Now she’s back. Bright-eyed, like the world ain’t gone and chewed her up like the rest of us. Always was better than me... still is. And me? I’m just a man tryin’ to drown the fact that I ain’t even close to good enough.
He tipped his hat back slightly, just enough to let the light catch the smirk tugging at his lips—a crooked, self-deprecating thing. Wyatt raised his glass in a mock toast, his voice a little louder now, though the melancholy never left.
To shadows, devils, and women who deserve better. Cheers.
He drank deeply, setting the glass down again and letting his head hang low. For all the bravado and wit Wyatt carried in spades, it was clear he was a man unraveling, one drink at a time. The noise of the tavern carried on, indifferent to his spiral, leaving him to wrestle with his ghosts in the haze of ale and dim lantern light.
@Rosalie Rutherford
11-20-2024, 01:20 PM
