“Great.”
How did I get here? My alcohol-soaked brain begins churning through the events that led to the now, and I groan. I remember sprinting out of the hotel, haunted by the face of the kind old man who reminded me way too much of Hank. And then I remember the desperate need to run. To keep running until my lungs protested with every step that I took.
After that, I don’t remember much else.
This stands against everything I believe in. I see alcohol as a weak excuse to escape reality, just like drugs. And I’m in a strange city, miles away from my knife and Quinn.
He’s going to kill me. But I still wish he was here because I miss him.
Looks like my plans of going out to clear my head have fallen flat on their ass. But who was I kidding? Quinn is embedded into my entire being, and the
