A shot glass hit the bar with a sickening thunk. Followed by a drunken sigh of relief, laced with desperation. It was the type of expression you’d hear quite frequently at Polly’s, especially on a night like this. Cold, wet, and more miserable than Casanova doing a promo for his bitch, Draco.

Yes, that terrible.

Men and women mingled, the women being shot in the face with cheap lines, their head flying back in laughter, and bleeding disbelief. A few grizzly, old men sat along the edge of the bar, cheap caps, dirty jackets, beer bellies, watching the game with glazed eyes and wobbly hands letting the old-fashioned beers trickle down their salt-and-pepper beards. Laughing, slurring. Nothing new.

The chica’s hung around the guys that looked less like morons, with their light beers and annoyed faces.

Typical night, typical drunks.

Trent entered the bar, with a rugged thirst and fuck it demeanor. He was sick. And the bartender had the medicine.

Not long after coming in, Trent had a drink in front of him. It was appreciated and went down effortlessly, and the bartender knew this was the kind of customer he liked. No where to go, nothing to do, and money in his pocket.

Trent was satisfied for the time being: drinks at hand, women within an arm’s reach, and not a care in the world. He didn’t care where he would sleep tonight; for all he knew, he would probably pass out at the bar unless he went home with some girl. And then, he’d leave in the morning, sometimes after the girl had woken up. He’d walk into their kitchen, find them eating cold pizza from a box, in only a t-shirt. They’d smile, usually offer him something and he’d tell her he had stuff to do. It always seemed more formal than awkward. He hated to leave in the middle of the night, if not for the inconvenience, but he’d never be able to call that girl up on a lonely night.

There was a girl across the room; Trent couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She was unlike any other girl in the vicinity, so naturally she stood out. She had a red rose against her jet black hair, her wardrobe was simple and that mixture of class and trash. Traces of black mascara lingered beneath a bleak eyes; she’d been crying. Asshole. Trent thought of her the loser-boyfriend that was probably breaking her heart.

She wasn’t the hottest coal in the fire, but after a few drinks, Trent knew she’d burn a little bolder. He continued downing his drinks, watching her sip on something honey-colored. As her face soon lightened with a slight smile, Trent figured it was something strong. She didn’t go ballistic, like most of the people who couldn’t hold their liquor, going from zero-to-sixty in a single shot.

A few hours and several drinks later, Trent found himself with a lighter wallet and heavy eyelids. His raven-haired damsel in distress had called it a night. It was time for him to go home or to a hotel, at least.

Perfect moment for a stumbling lush to come along and spill a drink on Trent, right?

Everything seemed to slow down drastically and all sound became a drowned-out mumble, insignificant to his ears. He looked down and saw the beer dripping down from his shirt and into a puddle at his feet. He looked up at the drunk dude’s face, yet to change to shock as he was too drunk to even realize what he’d done. And before he could think about being a fucking stereotype, the tips of Trent’s fingers curled up into his palm, squeezed tightly into a clenched fist that rose quickly and decked the guy with a purpose.

The drunk’s feet seemed to slip from under him and he fell onto his back with loud crash, prompting the turning of heads. A sharp cry rang over the now-silent bar and the noise heightened again, frantic and rattled.

Trent kneeled, his left fist collecting the collar of the guy’s shirt for leverage as his right hand hammered away on the poor drunk’s mug. Trent felt something break beneath his knuckles and blood covered the guy’s face.

At first, he was mad at the guy, but soon it was no longer the drunkard’s face he was hammering. It was a dude who’d pissed him off in a grocery store, once. It was Draco’s face. It was his biological mother’s face. It was his father’s face. It was everyone who’d brought him trauma in the past. It was his own.

His breathing harsh and his hand sore, he realized the guy wasn’t fighting back, just lying there with his eyes rolling around in his head. He released his collar with a confused sigh and let his bloodied hand fall to his side.

Before he could realize what he’d done, he was being pulled out of the bar. He didn’t even feel the cold handcuffs being tightly fastened on his wrists pulled behind his back. Red and blue lights flashed across his face as they put him in the backseat of a police cruiser. His head collapsed against the window and his eyes closed.