The lights in the bar flickered over my head, flashing and whirring like fire flies who've lost thier spark. It wasn't much of a bar, a couple feeble looking stools here, an empty beer bottle smashed on the floor over there. The place stank of depression, even the drunks hanging thier heads low over the tables were less boisterious then usual, prefering to hug thier pints close to thier chests tonight rather then swing heavy blows at eachothers' noses.
The barmaid approached me, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and lipstick smeared across her thin pouty lips. She looked like she'd been here since six a.m this morning serving the same bumbs along the counter. I could see something dieing in her eyes even as she picked up my glass to refill it.
I knew her story back to front. It wasn't hard to predict her type, sad as thier story was. She must have been about seventeen, her parents divorced, or a runaway father, leaving her and atleast one sibling to nurse thier raging alcholic mother by themselves. She'd never had a proper education, not with having to come home halfway through each day to rescue her mother from the clutches of the drug dealers. Her brother or sister was still young, maybe ten or eleven, looking on her to keep them safe, to guide them. So young, and still she had the resposibilities her mother had dumped on her.
She spent day after day in the bar, serving horrible old men who geered at her, and returned every night to her mother's pills, whiskey and cursing. Every night she would hear that she was nothing, a slut and a bitch, worth less then the sad dog they barely kept alive on the scraps of food they could offer it.
She looked up from pouring the drink, her eyes meeting mine. I must not have looked like much either, lanky brown hair and grey eyes. But in that moment, I felt I had to protect her. In her eyes, I saw her plea with me, whisper something lower then words. She was asking for me to save her. Me, like I was any better off then her. Like I could be a hero.
I lowered my eyes. Shuffling to my feet, slamming down a fiver on the counter. I made towards the door, forgetting my drink that she was pouring out for me.
I turned one last time as i reached the peeling red painted exit. She was still watching me, but the lightbulb in the socket above her had gone out.
There's a lot to like in this, but I think it could be better with a tight edit. There's a misspelling - their - and a few words that I think could be trimmed from the first tow graphs.
ReplyDeleteThe ending is fabulous, by the way.
ThomG, thanx alot. I'm only human, and fifteen years ald for that matter, and spelling was never my strong point. EVER! but i love to write, love to tell stories, and love to hear that someone has enjoyed my work.
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