His Son

It Hurts

NOTICE: Before I begin this chapter, I wanted to mention something! I have entered this story in Ranboo's contest as I have previously mentioned. Well, it's voting time! I would really appreciate it if y'all would vote for this story. My entry is on Doc 3, page 125. Here is the link if y'all are interested: https://tinyurl.com/ranboossvote . 

<a> <span>Contest Voting</span> </a>

Also, this chapter has a TW for derealization: 

Begins at: "Stupid Boy...."

Ends at: "Are you alright..."

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The bar was bustling with energy just like any other night. Voices carried over the music as the drunken patrons attempted to sing the songs that played through the bar speakers. The dance floor had slowly leaked into the seating area, making the entire dining floor a mess. The only safe place was the bar. But, this was all very typical. Patrons would come, pay their previous tab, drink, eat, party, forget to pay for that night, and leave only to come back the next night to pay and repeat the process. It was a constant cycle of turmoil that revolved around the bar. And it was a lot for the poor ex-butler to handle.

Currently, John gripped the tan rag and dried the glasses, only to turn around and immediately fill those glasses with some type of whiskey or ale. John would then pass the drink down the bar, watching the patron either slap the money down or take the glass and join the party again. Knowing the names of most people in the town, John kept track of everyone's tabs via a small book that rested beside the cash register. He would write the name of each patron, tallying the number of a specific drink, only crossing out those tallys when they pay. It was a simple process, something he could usually keep track of, but more often than not, he would find himself forgetting where he last placed the book.

It usually wasn't a problem as he would find the book quickly, however, that night was different. The book was missing, entirely. It wasn't by the cash register, it wasn't on top of the barrels, nor was it under the shelf where the bottom shelf whiskey was. The journal was nowhere to be found. He even checked the office, the cooler, the cellar where the extra ale was kept, out by the trash, in the trash, and even in the cash register. For the life of him, John could not find the damned journal. So there he was, still filling mugs with no way to count how many each person got. He attempted to mark on his skin with the pen, but the ale that was constantly being spilled on him only washed away the ink. But, he couldn't just not serve his patrons. But, he knew he would be behind on his rent. Damn...

The gripping fear had first started as just a bit of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. However, as the night progressed, it seemed to take a turn for the worse. He probably should not have opened that night considering that morning he had ripped a rather good amount of the vines out of his skin. But, he couldn't afford to lose any money, so he had to open. The strain of working was slowly getting to him. The pain from his back was biting and was like liquid fire was being poured into the cuts. He was pretty positive that he was bleeding through the bandages, however, there was no way for him to change the bandages half way through his shift. He had no other bartenders, mainly because he couldn't pay them to man the bar while he went MIA. So instead, he bit back curses as he practically did everything to annoy the wounds.

Finally, when the patrons seemed too drunk or too tired to order more ale, he finally sat down on a stool. The relief he felt was almost pleasurable, the ache in his feet disappearing as he sat on the wooden stool. He took a cloth from the bucket of water, cleaning his face while also cooling himself down with the water. Leaning his head back and laying the rag on top of his head, he closed his eyes and rested for the first time that night. But, a faintly familiar voice interrupted his thoughts. The voice was one he had not heard for a long time, and only in his dreams. Fear grew in his stomach.