Shielding the Beast (discontinued)

Two | Whiskey

"Whiskey." My contemplative eyes remain locked on the surface of the bar, my acknowledgment of the bartender barely existent.

'Here, little wolf.' My father grabs my attention, outstretching a miniature glass of liquid gold tinted brown to me.

'What is it, Daddy," my childlike voice queries him, innocent eyes scrutinizing the off-colored water.

'Whiskey. Drink it. It furthers the beast's irritability for a temporary amount of time.'

'Why would I do that?' My small hands wrap around the glass to hold it beneath my nose, inhaling the new scent.

'If you ever find your feelings preventing you from doing what needs to be done it will tip the balance in logic's favor.'

My father's intended use for liquor is ineffectual for me now. My feelings shriveled up and died several years ago, making pushing them away pointless. The drink is simply a habit I choose to keep and another goading remembrance of a father taken away.

A polished shot glass housing my dark golden venom comes sliding across the smooth mahogany surface of the bar.

My hand lays open, preparing to intercept the alcoholic drink. When nothing but air meets my fingertips, my head raises to assess the situation.

In a hand as callused and cracked as the desert floor my eyes gravitate toward a shot of whiskey clasped in burly fingers.

Immediately my legs lift me from the stool and bring me to face the man with my drink. His bald head bares the strong similarities of a glassy pearl, gleaming with every movement beneath the light. His chin and upper lip are hidden by a patch of wiry auburn hair.

My fingers reaching out for the whiskey, his refuse to release it.

"Leave the killing of brain cells to the pros, girlie," his voice overflows with fallacious disdain.

"In order to kill a brain cell," the whiskey is snatched from his meaty hand, "you have to have one."

Comprehending the insult, the man's face turns red with frustration, mirroring the color of an irritated rash.

"Where the hell is the whore who gave birth to such a disrespectful brat like you?"

The whiskey is thrown back my throat, the satisfying burn I'd become accustomed to taking over my senses.

Emotion is as nonexistent in my tone as ice in lava, "My mother is dead, if you'd really like to know. But don't worry. You'll be meeting her soon."

The whole bar hangs in silence, not a soul daring to intervene. My arm comes down on the counter, the banging of the shot glass the only sound perceivable before my body is lunging at the man.

Glass shatters, wooden chairs break, humans yell - some in excitement, others in distress- as the man is forced through the center of one of the round tables. Splintered wood lay scattered around his body sprawled on the floor, opposite halves of the table on each side of him.

The desire to spill his blood is overwhelming, to taste it, to start the blood lust over again. The multitude of eyes gaping at me is the only thing saving this man's negligible life.