I sit at the bar trying to forget all that has happened. In the past week, it has become my safe haven ever since... I can't even stomach to say it. However, like every other night I stay in this dismal setting, I find myself not consuming alcohol. I always buy it, yet I never do partake in it.
I look around the bar to find the same scenery: the usual drunken laughter, the raunchy lovers, and the beginning banter of a fight.
I sigh. It is all the same except for this one particular chap. It is disconcerting to see him. He is like me– utterly sober. He is tucked away in a shadowy corner. It is as though he doesn't want to be spotted, yet he ironically stands out.
He is eyeing the bar with caution. Is he expecting someone? He picks up his bottle, looks at it, and then puts it down on the table.
A blonde woman stumbles her way to him. She is giggling and evidently hit the bottle quite hard. He scoots down the booth and lets her clamber in with him. He immediately nuzzles his head into her neck, and she laughs in drunken splendour.
I eye him in disgust. One should never take a girl who is so vulnerable. It is outrageous to watch him indulge.
I turn away from him and look at all of the bottles that are lined behind the bar. I am always impressed at how the bartender knows each one.
I look back at him, wondering if he has come to his senses. No. He is still engorging himself. He pulls back, though, and immediately looks at me in disgust as though I had ruined such an intimate moment. The bar was no place to be intimate.
The girl whispers something in his ear, and he pushes her away. How could he disrespectful to this girl? Could she mean so little to him?
He continues to push his way so he can get out of the booth. His eyes are set for me, and I already feel the beginnings of a fight pulse through him. For what, though? Because I watched him?
He walks over to the bar, and although I am ready for a punch, he instead sits himself across from me and asks for another beer. He turns his head away from me so all I could see is a mass of black hair.
“What would a married man be doing in a bar?” he asks, anger rising in his voice.
“And why should you care?” I retort, anger also rising in my voice.
“Then why were you bothering to look at me?” He drinks from the bottle. Alcohol in his system could be a sticky predicament.
“How could you take a girl that is vulnerable?”
He laughs bitterly. “Are you going to condemn me and rant about moral values? I would not advise it good sir. You sit at the bar, abandoning a wife and most likely kids, for leisure. So why would it matter if I take a girl tonight?”
“How dare you…” I growl.
“Or is it because the full moon approaches? You fear for their safety?”
I falter towards him. “How could you guess?” I ask weakly. My face grows faintly pale.
“You all smell the same,” he replies bitterly. “So instead of taking it out on your family, you will take it out on the bar? What high moral values!” He spreads his arms out and displays the entire bar to me. “These are your victims. How beautiful,” he silently mocks, his mouth barely moving. He then swiftly moves to look at his victim.
“Marsha!” he barks, and she quickly comes to his side. He drags her by the arm, leading her out of the bar. He laughs full heartily, bitterly. He looks directly at me as he laughed. “What poor unfortunate soul!” he proclaims.
I try not to gap, but I fail. I see those white fangs glint in the dim light, and as I look at Marsha, I see two neat puncture wounds and blood seeping down her neck.