239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOPJkMLw9c0
• 🥃 Trouble •239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡS553Kj4ZEH
239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3wP1dGgfic 239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7uS31D0GqD
Breathe, Guy.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡW0YHFyUb4j
Breathe.
My feet hitting the ground hard. My trainers not able to absorb the force of the impact. The dull thumping recognisable on the soles of my feet, as they pound the tarmac beneath me. The springing steps from earlier long forgotten, as my once coiled ankles, have been reminded of their natural state of skin and bone.
My lungs are ready to burst under the strain as they become more condense, due to the lack of oxygen. Not reaching the capacity required to keep them functioning. Restricted as though they're being strangled with a plastic bag, thrashing aimlessly for oxygen. Everything in my fibre wants to rip a hole in my chest to give my lungs what they need. My heart is on a frenzy, thrusting vigorously, to the point it's going to detach itself at the valves and make a break for it. My spirit, meanwhile, is a prisoner in an airtight cell. Still and lifeless yet fighting to stay alive...
Where the fuck am I going?239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ52rdwCPqkZ
As far away as possible..239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKT308KWutQ
I can't run from myself...239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEIqvgZ9HBG
Can't keep running, Guy...239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaWZhxkD3Q5
I can die trying....239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqFXOzjK9e1
Screw this!
Slowing my footing, from a full sprint, to a light jog until my feet come to a stop. I hunch over, my palms flat on my partly bent knees, with my head down as my purse lips suck in the much needed air. My throat rasps with eagerness as it channels down my pipes roughly. My eyes loose and heavy in my sockets, as I shift them between my knees and the road in front.
Breathing wildly as though I've forgotten how to. I can't decide whether to breathe through my mouth or my nose, so I take turns to do both. Neither of them can give me what my lungs desire quick enough. My heart gradually becoming tamer as if it's being stroked into submission with each breath I manage. Sweat apparent on my face, I don't have to touch it to know. I can feel my cheeks burning up, like red hot needles, prickling all over my skin.
Straightening my spine as I roll my broad shoulders back, giving my lungs room to breathe. Reclining my head to the sky, resting my hands on the nape of my neck, while my chest rises and falls, as breathing returns to its natural state. Savouring each intake my lungs pocket while thanking the stars for the courage to continue breathing.
My eyes now focusing on my surroundings, the shadow of myself stretched out before me under the streetlights. Manifesting itself as a separate entity, who is more comfortable than I am in my own skin. Breathing with ease as it stands there taking it all in in its motionless stride. My feet may have stopped but my thoughts are continuing to gallop, hurdling into yet another ultimatum. Another choice to make. Fight or flight and in some cases freeze over.
Alone... 239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVfpHbY3YGI
I am truly that now.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ20HBC7r9aF
With nothing but my inner voice to lean on, that will turn its back on me in a matter of time. 239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYSyV3mdFmu
Just like everyone else. 239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpw6zm9R1CM
Who can blame them?239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx3JfXOxuiZ
I sure as hell can't.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTS3o8TwsMn
I wouldn't keep me around either.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4iePAqZUtZ
I'm worthless. 239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmrEyaJ0tMH
A waste of space.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDAZO1Hdy00
A bag of crap.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡF1QlJiTgcS
Don't think so highly of yourself, Guy.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRm9Tk3gOwT
Yet, I still wanna know...239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzTtIHxC8lC
Who the hell am I now...?239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOM2ro3cE95
Do I have the balls to find out?
Diverting my sights away from my shadow, studying the high street with its garish clubs, fancy restaurants and late night take-outs, all lit up like tacky Christmas trees. Valleys of pitch black of closed shops, spontaneously dotted throughout the strip, cutting up the lights between the vivid nightlife. With all the tricks and flashy lights to entice you into any of them, only one particular building stands out. With its modest, kaleidoscopic stain glass windows, that distort the movement from view. The gentle buzz of music conducting behind them and the toasty lighting bleeding out onto the pavement.
With its checkered, rusty red brickwork and rustic, ebony door that bears an eight-pointed star emblem on it, coloured in bronze and wine red. Matching maroon woodwork bolted to the length of the detached building and in its very centre in bronze script reading "The Eastern Star." Showcasing the name like a Hollywood blockbuster without the gimmicks. It stands alone against the cardinal red plaque. The tattooed lettering shimmering in the street lights as though it had been written in fairy dust.
It looks completely out of place along the glitzy high street and modern streets. All with their jazzy neon lights surrounding it, while it sits almost alone in the dark. The black sheep who stands by itself. The rebel who doesn't want to be accepted. The mystery not wanting to be solved. Beckoning me as it crooks it's finger, extending a hand and repeatedly curling it's forefinger towards its palm in a hooking motion. Whispering the words "come closer, Guy."
Creeping nearer to the entrance of The Eastern Star, it's calls more intense as I approach the timbered picnic benches outside, slimy from the rain. My busted hand now on the raven door, I take a deep breath as I'm about to take a plunge. Entering a building is nothing, it's what waits for me on the other side. I wrap my fingers round the long bar handle, in one motion I yank it open as though pulling a plaster off and step into the heart of the building.
The bar on the right with its wall of liquors and spirits thrown behind it. Racks of wine spilling over the bottled chaos and fridges of the softer stuff skirting the bottom. The theme continues on the ceilings where old bottles are reborn as light shades here at The Eastern Star. The walls are smothered with photos, paintings and all are inconsistent. No theme just there so the walls aren't so soulless, however it works. The maroon theme continues inside with its interior booths padded with oxblood leather seats and the wooden stalls placed along the bar, cushioned with the same.
"Don't want any trouble tonight, Mister Easton." A mature, hoarse voice mutters.
I didn't even notice the stocky, decrepit man there. Standing behind the bar, in a plain, white shirt, drying glasses with an old white cloth, blending into the surroundings as he becomes part of the furniture. He hunches as though he has been there centuries, pouring over the same spot. As his sunken, pale eyes transfixing on the glass, not once leaving it to acknowledge me. They follow as he holds it up to the dim lights, inspecting it for smears. His face scowls as he strenuously polishes the glass, the lines on his forehead deepening into canyons. They soften but remain heavy when bringing the glass back down to the cloth again.
"..Nice to see you too, Walter." Saucing my words, still standing in the same spot.
Walter doesn't rise to it as he continues cleaning the glass as though I wasn't here. I wasn't even worth lifting his head for anymore.
"..Still holding that grudge splendidly, I see." I continue to antagonise, my mouth twitching into my cheek.
"I mean it, kiddo... any trouble and mark my words, you're out on your arse!" He threats through pinched lips, shaking his fist at me before returning to his precious glass.
"..Awww, I missed you too, fluid." Sardonically wimping, as I hold out my arms for a hug that I know isn't coming.
"Don't be funny. It doesn't suit you, boss." His eyes not blinking in their sideways stance as his mouth stays in neutral.
"..Remember that, Walter. Keyword... Boss." My mouth rising a little again in the corner as I air quote "Boss", before dropping them into my jean's pockets, hooking my thumb on the outside of one.
"I'll bar you again if you carry on." Slamming the cloth down on the mahogany bar, turning his back to survey the bottles behind him.
"..Story of my life... barred from my own pub." Rolling my eyes in disinterest, the old coot has run out of ideas.
"Grab a stool... we're dead if you haven't noticed." Lifting his arms matter-of-factly, stating the obvious crabbily, before slamming them down with a clap as they hit his thighs.
Wading my way over to the rooted, elongated bar, the pumps for the drafts paraded along the inside, out of reach, like barricades on a closed route. The Eastern Star, somewhere that I own but don't belong. They say ownership doesn't mean anything... I laughed in the face of that person but now I wish I could take back that laugh and shake their hand. That person was Walter and I owe him that. This place bears my name but the heart of it is Walter's.
Plonking myself on the stool in the furthest corner yet the closest to the door. Slumping myself upon it to fit my bulky self on. Perched as uncomfortably as I feel being here, I cock one foot onto the stool's support plank. Wobbling a tad to stay mounted, making me vulnerable of my size and stature.
My fingers sculpting into steeples as I lay them on the surface of the bar. My knuckles in smithereens as my blood drys and chaps into grazes. The scabbing biting away at my flesh, healing my wounds and exposing what's hidden, despite how defensive my cells are fighting to beat it out. The swelling throbbing as they bruise black and blue taking on their new injured form for all to see, with nowhere to hide.
"You haven't really been to the place since the rename have you?" Walter shuffles over with an empty glass, sliding it in front of me.
Observing him pour the bottle of Caol Ila 12 into the glass, not muttering a dry word as he spills some of it. Wincing at the reminder of the name change, as the intention behind it rakes my brain. I never did get the opportunity to unveil it to her.
The former name "The Eastern Arms" didn't fit me anymore. The last thing I've wanted since her, is to have a bunch of strangers in my arms. The only name that does is "The Eastern Star." Why? You can admire a star, wish upon it, and watch them fall. Yet, you can't catch a star, you'll never hold one and they will be forever out of reach. However, you can have one that's just yours. To look to for guidance when lost. You can name a star, so it shares yours. So that's what I did. I named her my star, as in an ideal world, she would have been mine...
"..Na, I've been kinda busy." My hand cupping my face as it sinks into it solemnly, as my other wraps round the half empty glass.
My eyes flickering down to the glass and impulse gnaws at me as I swoop it up and chuck the almost black solvent down my throat. Shaking my head to one side as it's fire hits my gut. My glass now empty, a visual representation of my life. Empty. Fuck, how I don't want to miss her tonight... who am I kidding... missing her is all I have left.
"Do you want another drink? Or are you gonna sit there like a miserable bastard all night?" Throwing the old white cloth over his shoulder as he pulls himself a pint.
"..Great barmanship right there, Walter. Just charming. No wonder the place is packed." Saltiness dripping from my lips, before tapping the bar with my index finger to insinuate another hit of whisky.
Walter mutters some inaudible grumble as he trots his way over to snatch my glass.
"On the rocks?" He asks not caring for the answer, scratching his grizzly grey beard.
"..Fuck it. Why not.." In an indifferent tone, as I don't give a shit either.
"Here, drink that and shut up." As he slides the glass on a coaster in front of me.
Whisky on the rocks sounds fun. However, adding ice to whisky numbs your palate... and if you drink enough of it... your severed soul. Tonight, I plan on testing that theory. What the fuck do I have to lose? Embracing my fall, sampling the intoxication to see if it brings me some sweet release from the shackles I wear and carry.
Nursing the tumbler as I drag it nearer to me, bringing it before my lips without taking a sip. The flat, smooth edge of the glass penetrating my bottom lip as I contemplate having a morsel. Relishing the grainy aroma with subtle side notes of pear and smoked oak filling my head briefly, before it's forced underwater by my thoughts holding it down.
Sipping the whisky rather than chucking it down my throat this time. Walter shuffles out to the back wordlessly, leaving me in my own, empty, pointless space. Swirling the solution in the glass as my mind does the same. This place gives them room to spread, like a virus infecting every cell it comes into contact to.
Time to go...239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzXxuExpdPD
Can't keep running, Guy...239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNxBxaVnt0D
There's nowhere to run...239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSTe9cQHYx2
And there's nowhere to hide...
Diving my hand into pocket and fishing out my wallet, my fingers flicking through the folds of leather for the touch of toughened paper. They scurry along each edge, praying to find what they're searching for. Instead, they stumble upon the same business card of Hannah Jones. My thumb hoovering over it as the flashback starts again, snapping to an end when I place it to the side on the bar. My fingers continue to teeter, discovering more mementos and photos lost in time. Picking out yet another business card, but this one is my own.
Guy Easton239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPCILGVJPe7
Event Planner239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5yrIryq5mm
Creating golden moments
Embossed in black, centaur font, on ghost white card, the lettering bracketed with gold laurel wreaths. I used to live for creating moments. Making them special, weaving them into gold by picking out the perfect time, place and delivery. For people to hold onto them endlessly, storing them in a treasured shoe box, only to be taken out on rainy days to look back on and relive.
Sliding it back where I found it as though it has not been disturbed, my fingers still curious as they follow the curves of the wallet. Until they find themselves picking out a ticket stub from all those years ago. The one I thought I lost... "Summertime Ball" in fading text still eligible as though it hopes to live forever.
Screw my sentimental arse! Vision blurring as I stare hard at the frayed piece of paper. Tattered like me. My wallet is filled with memories I would relive if I could but this one, the jury is still out. Gulping the whisky, slamming the tumbler down on the bar as I wipe my moist mouth with the back of my hand. I just sit there. Glaring. At this stupid, worn out, stub. The one thing I can't let go. This ticket stub, is where that passion of mine died and so did Guy Easton, Event Planner.
"You've gotta face it, Guy." His words hollow as he stands there drying those damn glasses again.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdK6QIRRP9H
"Troubled doesn't suit you." Walter trails off, so do his eyes.
"..What are you talking about, fluid?" Eyeballing him, as my cheek tugs at the corner of my mouth.
"I've seen enough men, searching for answers in this pub to know trouble when I see it. My advice to you," He pauses, putting down the glass to look me in the eyes.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ37tSvOdIlo
"Face them, as you can't run forever, Guy." Gravely smiling, his eyes twinkling before he returns to wiping yet another glass.
"Whatthefuck. Are you in my head?" Standing up, my hands planted on the bar as though I hear something disturbing.
"Haven't gotta be in your head to see you're fighting a battle." His voice airy as he sticks the glass under the lights again, before placing it on the rack. He steps to me and leans his wild bearded face nearer mine.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtPel2qo4DH
"Those voices you're hearing... listen to the brave ones, Guy. And stop denying yourself the right to be happy." Tapping me on head as I shoo his elderly hand away.
He dips his dated finger into the front pocket of his white shirt and passes me yet another card to add to my collection. What the fuck. The old coot has some nerve. The spoken words swirling around in my mind, counteracting my own. But the card, is a bit insulting. Counselling? Does he really believe I'm a raving head-case? Am I that obvious with it? Is it that apparent? Collecting my tat that I have left all over the bar and finally finding that crisp note. Vicing it between my index and middle finger as I hold it out for Walter.
"..For the drinks... yours is on me." Smiling faintly at him from the other side of the bar.
"Your money isn't wanted here tonight, boss. And I've arranged your ride home." Walter says stiffly as he places his rough hands behind his back.
"..You really do go above and beyond, Walter." Simpering at him as I tuck the note back into my wallet.
"No need to thank me. I just want you out of my sight." Dropping the words as cooly as tipping a hat.
"Guy!" My name chimes around me.
I spin myself round to see a Reece, in a grey tracksuit, standing in the very doorway I found myself at hours previously. His rosy-pale cheeks perky as he wears that goofy smile of his and his eyes squinting due to how high they are on his stupid face. His hair messier then usual as though he has been tearing it out.
"..Reece?" Saying his name as though its a question.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZ0P2oDjpsM
"..Have you put a tracker on me?" Patting myself down as though I am going to find the bugging device.
"Reece left me his number a few years back, incase one night, you found yourself here." Walter's voice flat and steady yet chirpy.
Feeling an arm around my shoulders and a gentle hand on my bicep. The weight dripping off them like water from a tap. The distance between myself and the bar growing with each supervised step. Reece's face now next to mine as we near the door.
"C'mon Guy, I'll take you home, bro."
Smiling narrowly at Reece's cheesing before glinting at the card Walter gave me. His words and my own echoing in my head as I absently stare at it. Can't keep running, Guy... and do you know what... I'm tired of running. Fight or flight? Tonight, I'm going to escape and tomorrow... well, tomorrow I might just fight... After all, we don't always win. Sometimes, we have to lose in order to come back stronger. Every dog has their day. Tomorrow, might just be mine...239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx8P8K8r4CP
239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZZvgNmkm62
239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGiK4MqPTza
