The room was dingy and reeked of alcohol

The room was dingy and reeked of alcohol. Its acrid, boozey scent worked its way through Basil’s soul, staining his thoughts, his mind, his very awareness. A dim, neon sign flickered subtly against the window - reversed, for the outside world, it read “DRINKS!,” hot pink and devoid of any real human character.

The gloomy air of the bar left Basil nothing to reminisce on. Devoid of a muse, his mind wandered, dredging up acquaintances he should have forgotten long ago. That was when he remembered Antonio’s face, dark and hard-edged from tribulations and grief. Although he was young, the man looked to be a thousand years old; his likeness had been weathered by time and work and despair, shadowed wrinkles etched delicately around his scarred features. Despite his gruff exterior, Antonio Muerte had about him a gentle demeanor, the remnants of that loving father from so long ago, destroyed by the flames of time. Basil had never known anyone as kind as Antonio, not that he could remember.

He wheezed in the sour air. Even Irvine’s pub had never smelled this rank. Antonio, he recalled, hated alcohol, absolutely despised it — the man shuddered if he so much as heard of it in passing conversation. Once, at the pub, Basil had offered to spike his daily lemonade — Antonio then left, saying nothing, and didn’t return for a week.

That was before he really knew Antonio, back when he was just a waiter for a customer. That was before they lived together, loved together, lied together, and before that one fateful night that shattered the illusion and stained Basil’s life with blood.

Now, knowing the truth, Basil realized he could never face his lover ever again.

The night ticked on, in that pungent bar, and had one walked in they would have found a lone, well-dressed man, food gone cold and face streaked with tears, too ruined and cowardly to truly accept his raw, harsh reality.