REJECTED LUNA

Chapter 2

Elisa's POV;

The neon sign flickers above the entrance to the bar, casting an eerie glow on the rain-soaked pavement. I stumbled through the door, my body heavy with grief and the weight of my failures.

The scent of stale beer and desperation hung in the air, mingling with the distant sound of laughter and clinking glasses.

"Give me your strongest wine," I slurred, my voice barely above a whisper as I approached the worn-out bartender.

His eyes met mine, filled with sympathy and caution. He knew me, or at least he knew of me. Everyone did. The cursed girl. The girl who could never keep her loved ones alive.

He nodded silently, pouring a generous glass of red liquid. The crimson depths swirled in the glass, a reflection of the darkness that consumed my soul.

I took the glass with a trembling hand, the weight of it ground me in this moment of despair. I raised it to my lips, letting the bitter taste wash over my tongue, hoping it would wash away the pain as well.

I found solace in the solitude of the bar, surrounded by strangers lost in their worlds of regret and sorrow.

The noise of their conversations blended together, a symphony of broken dreams and shattered hopes. It was in this cacophony that I found comfort, a temporary respite from the relentless torment of my thoughts.

"Elisa, why couldn't you save him?" I muttered to myself, my voice barely audible over the din. "What's wrong with you? Why do you bring nothing but death?"

The bartender watched me from afar, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and curiosity. He could see the torment etched on my face, the battle between grief and self-loathing. Perhaps he could sense the desperation that clung to me like a second skin.

I downed the glass of wine, the liquid burning a path down my throat. It offered no answers, only a fleeting numbness that promised a temporary escape from reality. I signaled for another, my words slurring as I spoke.

"Another, please. Keep them coming."

The bartender hesitated for a moment, his gaze searching mine for a glimmer of hope or redemption.

But he saw none. He sighed, pouring another glass without a word. He knew that sometimes drowning our sorrows was the only way to keep from being consumed by them.

As the wine flowed freely, my thoughts spilled out in fragments, disjointed and raw.

"Why? Why do I bring death? Am I truly cursed, or is it all in my mind? I loved them, all of them, and they died. Is it because of me? Am I the one who kills them?"

The bartender listened in silence, his eyes filled with a mixture of pity and understanding. He had heard stories, whispered tales of my cursed existence.

But now, as he watched me unravel before him, he saw the truth of my pain etched upon my face.

"You're not alone," he finally spoke, his voice gentle yet firm. "We all carry our burdens, our regrets. But it's how we rise from the ashes that truly defines us."

I clung to his words, the sliver of hope they offered. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of this darkness. I raised my glass once more, the liquid wavering in the dim light.

As the bartender's words still lingered in the air, a fragile lifeline of hope amidst the despair that consumed me.

But before I could fully grasp onto that glimmer, the atmosphere shifted. Two men, their confidence oozing from every pore, approached me with predatory smiles.

"What is a beautiful lady like you doing all alone, drowning your sorrows in a drink?" one of them purred, his eyes fixed on mine. "Don't you think you need a man to take you to the moon?"

I could feel their intentions, their shallow desires masked by false charm. I wanted no part in their game, no distractions from the pain I carried within. I shook my head, my voice firm and resolute. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm not interested."

Their smiles melted into fury, their entitlement raging to the surface. In a fit of anger, one of them knocked the glass from my hand, the wine splattering across the table and staining my face.

I could taste its bitter remnants mingling with the salt of my tears.

"How dare you reject us!" the other man growled, his voice laced with venom. "We were just being friendly."

My heart pounded in my chest as adrenaline surged through my veins.

The anger of my husband's death fueled a fire within me, an inferno of determination. I clenched my fists, ready to fight back, to prove that I was not a helpless victim.

But my first punch faltered, misreading the distance and striking nothing but air. They laughed, their amusement twisted into malice.

The next thing I knew, pain exploded across my face as their fists connected with bone, driving me backward.

I stumbled, my vision blurred with tears and the haze of alcohol. The room spun, the once-familiar bar now a battleground of my own making. I fought back with every ounce of strength I could muster, but I was outmatched, overwhelmed by their brute force.

"Get your hands off her, I won't watch you hurt her anymore." In the midst of the chaos, the bartender, a beacon of unexpected bravery, rushed to my aid. His presence, a mere flicker of hope, emboldened me.

But as he threw himself into the fray, a punch landed square on his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground.

"No!" I cried, my voice laced with desperation. "Leave him alone!"

Blood trickled from the bartender's lip as he struggled to rise,

"No." His body was battered but his spirit was unyielding.

"Please, we don't have to do this, please we could still settle this, it doesn't have to get to this." He begged them to stop, to find some shred of mercy within themselves.

But they were deaf to his pleas, consumed by their rage and the thrill of overpowering the vulnerable.

The fight raged on, each blow a testament to the darkness that lurked within humanity. Pain seared through my body, but I refused to surrender. I fought with the desperation of a wounded animal, fueled by the will to survive.

The bartender's eyes met mine through the chaos, and in that fleeting moment, I saw his unwavering resolve.

He fought not just for himself, but for me, for the belief that there was still good left in this world.

But the odds were stacked against us, the violence relentless. In the face of imminent defeat, the bartender's voice rose above the chaos, a plea that echoed through the bar.

"Please… stop… enough!"

His words hung in the air, a fragile plea that struck a chord within

The men didn't stop.

The blows were unyielding, each punch a sharp reminder of the danger I'd found myself in.

The men were relentless, their cruel laughter echoing off the walls as they took turns assaulting both the bartender and me. I could taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth, a grim testament to the severity of the situation.

Suddenly, I heard a sharp intake of breath, and the laughter stopped. The room fell silent, and the punches ceased.

I dared to open my eyes, squinting through the swelling to make out the figure who had just grabbed everyone's attention.

He was the last patron, the final barfly who hadn't scattered when the fight broke out.

I'd noticed him earlier, nursing his drink in the corner and keeping his eyes on the door. He was a stranger, yet he had chosen to step in when no one else had.

"Enough," he commanded, his voice low and filled with an authority that made the men hesitate.

"You've had your fun. Leave the girl and the bartender alone."

One of the men snarled, turning to face him. "And who's gonna make us, old man? You?"

The stranger merely raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. "If I have to."

The first man lunged, fists swinging wildly. But the stranger was quicker.

His reflexes were sharp, every move calculated and precise. He danced around their punches and retaliated with his own, and one by one, the men fell to the ground, incapacitated.

Suddenly, rage consumed me. I scrambled to my feet, my fists clenched tightly. One of the men - the one who'd started it all - was struggling to rise. Without thinking, I lunged at him, my fists connecting with his face.

Blood splattered, but I didn't care. All I could feel was the burning anger, the need for revenge.

A strong hand suddenly gripped my wrist, pulling me back. "It's okay," the stranger said, his voice calm and soothing. "You're safe now."

Those words - they broke something inside me. I crumpled, the adrenaline leaving my body as quickly as it had come. The tears started then, hot and unending. I cried for the fear I'd felt, the pain, the injustice.

In the background, I heard the wail of sirens and saw the flashing red and blue lights. The bartender, critically injured, was being rushed away on a stretcher. I could only pray he'd be okay.

The stranger released my wrist, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. But as I turned to thank him, I found him gone. In his place, a small note lay on the table.

"Meet me at the pier at midnight."

A shiver ran down my spine. Who was this man? And what did he want with me? As the questions swirled in my mind, I realized something. Despite the fear and uncertainty, I knew I would meet him. I needed answers.

But for now, I was left with the echo of his words, the mystery of his identity, and the anticipation of what was to come.