He sat down. The dim light of the bar was the only place he felt he belonged anymore. He liked the way the ambiguous lighting concealed him, the way he didn't stand out. Of course, he wasn't proud of that, it was just something he'd gotten used to. The barmaid waltzed over. It was easy for people like her. The deepest connection they had to form was the order they were taking, maybe a name if the person was interesting enough. Anything more thar that and she'd have to re-evaluate her profession. He envied the blissful ignorance. It sounded like heaven. It was his fault though. He was a fool. He knew that. The fact laughed him in the face every night he took the same seat at the same bar and ordered the same drink. He was drinking to forget, that's what he told himself anyway. It was almost pointless. with every sip everything became more vivid. Fate was mocking him, reminding him of the twisted hand he'd been dealt in a game he never agreed to play. It had dragged him in, kicking and screaming, and it was going to take double the fight for him to get out. Hell, it was going to take more than a fight, a full-blown war was in order, and he knew he didn't have it in him. He'd already lost once; he couldn't do it again.

Telling himself that was enough, he stood up, leaving more than enough to cover another three rounds. It was a lie, though. That's all he seemed to do anymore. The problem was that he was so good at it, he always had been. It was like he had been blessed with sin. Some people lie as a defense mechanism, but for him, it was much more real than that. It was an instinct; the only way he could survive in the life he'd been forced to live.

The harsh contrast between the street that had been submerged in darkness more and more as the hours ticked slowly by, and the radiant beams streaming down from the towering streetlights sickened him. He despised the way the light disrupted the somber aesthetics of the night, as if the angels themselves were piercing the blank sky with their omnibenevolence. More importantly, he despised the way he resonated with it. The faux peace of his mind was constantly disrupted by blinding lights, like the way the golden sun lets itself in through the gap in the curtains at 8am, but he couldn't bring himself to face it.Instead, shut the curtains and hid under the covers.

It wasn't a healthy thing to do. He'd tried speaking to friends, but a better conversation would look him in the eye and dare him not to do it. He'd tried speaking to professionals, but they'd tell him that he was caught in a Freudian nightmare, entangled in his upbringing and that's the way he'd have to live. He'd come this far, why stop now?

When he arrived home, he left the lights off. It was a big apartment, but that was just another word for empty. He was more than exhausted, but he knew he wasn't going to sleep. When his head hit the pillow there was no snoring, no heavy eyes but just blank thoughts bouncing around in his head. They didn't mean anything. He wouldn't let them mean anything. When he stared up at the ceiling, his mind finally silent, he wondered whether he'd find any comfort in his dreams, or if his conscious mind would find different ways to manifest and taunt him until his waking hour.