Rusty nail
Elena POV
The rain outside wasn’t just falling; it was trying to drown the city. It battered the asphalt of the highway in sheets, turning the world beyond my windshield into a blurred smear of grey and red taillights. I loved it, honestly. The way the water washed everything clean, the way the sound muffled the noise of the world. But it had ruined the heels of my boots and made the drive into town longer than I’d anticipated.
I needed a drink. Or maybe just five minutes of silence where the only thing humming was an old refrigerator and not my own anxious thoughts.
I pulled my vintage Mustang to the curb in front of *The Rusty Nail*. The neon sign in the window buzzed with a sickly yellow flicker, promising cheap liquor and bad decisions. Perfect.
I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat, checking the contents before I braved the downpour. Nestled inside, safe from the damp, was the heavy, reassuring weight of my most constant companion. My lovely camera. It was a beat-up, beautiful brass and leather thing—a rangefinder I’d spent years saving up for, its metal worn smooth by my fingertips. It wasn't just a tool; it was the way I saw the world, capturing the raw, ugly-beautiful moments everyone else tried to ignore. I’d rather lose a limb than leave it behind in a parking lot.
Hiking it onto my shoulder, I took a breath and pushed open the car door. The cold air hit me like a physical slap, instantly soaking through the thin cardigan I wore over my floral dress. I slammed the door and made a run for it, my boots skidding on the wet pavement as I ducked under the awning of the bar.
Shaking the water from my hair, I pulled the heavy wooden door open and stepped inside.
The inside of *The Rusty Nail* was a wall of heat and noise, hitting me with the force of a physical blow after the sterile chill of the rain. The air was thick, a cocktail of stale beer, cheap tobacco, and the underlying scent of rain-soaked leather. It was grimy, it was loud, and it was exactly the kind of place Mark would have hated.
*Mark.*
The name twisted in my gut like a dull knife. It had been twelve hours since I walked into our apartment—*my* apartment now, technically—and found him tangled in the sheets with Sarah. My best friend. The woman I’d grown up with, the one I’d trusted with my spare key and my secrets.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, trying to banish the image of her pale, terrified face staring at me from over his shoulder. God, I was such a cliché. The goth girl who got played for the girl next door. Mark had always complained about my "darkness," said he couldn't handle the mood swings. Turns out, what he really wanted was something boring and safe.
Well, he could have boring. I was done being careful. I was done being the understanding girlfriend who packed him lunches and listened to him drone on about his actuary exams. I wanted to burn it all down, or at least drink enough cheap whiskey to forget I ever cared.
I pushed through the crowd, clutching the strap of my bag. The jukebox in the corner was wailing something low and bluesy, vibrating through the floorboards beneath my boots. I felt eyes on me as I moved—curious, lingering glances that I usually shied away from. Tonight, I didn't care. Let them look. Let them see the girl who’d just had her heart ripped out of her chest.
The bartender was a mountain of a man, his forearms the size of tree trunks and a beard that looked like it housed a small ecosystem. He was drying a glass with a rag that looked dirtier than the bar, his eyes scanning the room with the bored disinterest of a man who had seen everything and liked none of it.
I slid onto a stool, the vinyl tearing slightly at the seam, and dropped my bag onto the counter with a heavy thud. The brass buckle clanked against the wood, echoing louder than I intended.
"What'll it be?" the bartender grunted, not even looking up as he tossed the rag onto a stack of coasters.
"Whiskey," I said, my voice sounding steadier than I felt. "Cheap. And leave the bottle."
He paused, his gaze finally sliding over to me. He took in the smudged eyeliner, the soaking wet cardigan, and the way my hands were trembling slightly as I fiddled with the strap of my bag. He didn't ask for ID, and he didn't ask if I was okay. He just reached under the bar and slammed a dusty bottle of amber liquid down in front of me, followed by a heavy glass tumbler.
I didn't bother with a measure. I just poured. The amber liquid splashed over the rim of the glass, staining my fingers, before I lifted it to my lips. The burn was instantaneous—a fireball that seared my throat and settled heavy and warm in my hollow stomach. It tasted like gasoline and regret. It was exactly what I needed.
"Rough night?" the bartender grunted, though it sounded less like a question and more like a statement of fact. He moved off to serve a trucker down the end, leaving me to my poison.
"You have no idea," I muttered to the empty glass, staring at the distorted reflection of the neon beer sign in the amber liquid.
I poured another, the alcohol numbing the sharp edges of the betrayal, replacing the cold knot in my chest with a warm, fuzzy haze. I let my gaze drift around the room, needing something to focus on other than the replay of Mark’s excuses.
