BLEEP. BLEEP. BLEEP. Cry slowly turned over and hit dismiss. "Ugh." he groaned and he stumbled his way to the bathroom. As he stepped on the cold, grimy tile; he looked up into the mirror. He stared blankly into the reflection of his blood shot, tired eyes and his unclean and unshaven face. "Another day, another dawn. Another night, another long gone," he mumbled to just himself, so no one would hear. It's not as if it was necessary to carry on with these precautions. He could screech like a banished and no one would hear; nor would they care. He reached into his medicine cabinet and poured what was left of th Ibuprofen bottle in attempt to suffice his skull-splitting headache and slight nausea, the typical side effects of his daily hangover. He made made an effort to turn on the faucet. But to no avail, no water would come out. He had followed yet another habit of his: neglecting to pay the water bill. "Dammit!" he shouted pathetically at his reflection. Vision blurred by tears, he grasped the rounds of his counter. He furiously glared into the sink, wishing to wash himself away. He was disgusting, unworthy. He punched the mirror and shattered his last view of his gruesome horrid self. He sombered back into his bedroom. The putrid and distinctive scent of Vodka still hung in the air and clung to Cry's breath. He pulled on a shirt in which he figured was clean enough. He then set out to attempt to rid of the Vodka scent by smothering it in linen scented air freshener. Butof course, the ooutcome was as grotesque as what he began with. If not, worse. But he just let it slide. He was the only one that would suffer through it anyway. Unless, he was lucky enough for a vicious murderer to creep in in the dead of night. He sighed and reached for an ivory, porcelain, emotionless, mask that lay face-up on his desk. It was the only thing he cared for. Well... that and his work equipment. His work was his everything. The people and community that his work involved him in were the only thing that could temporarily strip him of a bottle. None of them knew who he truly was, what his life was really like, or even what he looked like. Most of them knew him as "Cry" or "Cryotic" but a special select few had the allowance of knowing him his birth name: "Ryan Terry." He loved his fans. He indulged every bit of his waning energy into every YouTube gaming video that he made. They didn't know him, but they loved him. And they loved his voice... oh, they loved his voice. Lottle did they know that his "sexy" voice was only so because of his drunkard throat. YouTube equaled the numbing of a million shots. He slipped behind his mask: his signature... his livelihood.
