Blaze
The whiskey burned as it slid down my throat, but I hardly noticed anymore. My senses were dull, the ache in my chest even duller. I slammed the empty glass on the table and signaled the bartender for another. The bar was quiet tonight, just the low hum of music in the background, the occasional clink of glasses, and the distant chatter of other lost souls seeking solace in their drinks. I envied them. At least they were trying to forget, trying to numb whatever pain haunted them. I was drowning, not just in alcohol but in memories—memories that no amount of whiskey could erase.
I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, staring into it as if the answers to my questions lay there. What was I even doing? I thought revenge would make me feel better, that it would somehow fill the gaping
