echo on the night train

anonymous asked:

Request prompt?--My SO has just dumped me and I've gotten piss drunk and I've a) drunkenly stumbled into the incorrect bathroom in the midst of ugly sobbing and you either forgot to lock the door or were out in the open and are very concerned about my state. B) somehow managed to get into your room and not my own (whether apartment or hotel) and I'm trying to masturbate my feelings away and boy were you surprised. Cheers!

A Helping Hand

Chapter 1

A/N: So, I couldn’t resist writing scenario B nor could I cram everything into a one-shot so there will be more.

Rated: M

Ch 2

The bar was crowded and loud. And the air was dreadfully thick. It was the last place he wanted to be, but far better than the alternative. Killian shuffled through the crowd, the obnoxious beat playing through the speakers and boisterous chatter doing nothing to numb his thoughts. Every noise was muffled and faded out by the conversation that echoed in his mind like a freight train sounding through the night. Reminding him of the last time he saw her before she walked out and slammed the door, disappearing from his life forever.

Killian plopped down onto a stool, slumping over the bar counter as he waited for the bartender. He just needed something to drown the pain. Something strong.

The argument started with something small, quickly spiraling out of control like gasoline to a fire. He was gone too much, he wasn’t adventurous enough. He didn’t love her anymore. According to Milah. Her tone was laced with anger, eyes devoid of any kind of love… at least any kind of love for him.

What it all boiled down to was that she already knew it was over before it was actually over.

All of the obscenities and excuses she threw at him that night were just a mask. Covering up her betrayal. Everything he thought that he knew was a lie. She was a lie. Her empty promises and scheming attempts of showing him how much she loved him and telling him she was divorcing her husband. It was all just a bloody fantastic charade.

“A rum, please,” he drawled out when the bartender approached. Killian watched him fetch a glass and pour the golden brown liquid from the bottle before sliding it over.

Killian clenched his jaw as he grabbed the glass, the bitter memories of the ungrateful bitch embedded in his brain. He threw back the rum, the wretched sting of alcohol sliding down Killian’s throat as he gulped it down, thinking about how his whole world had turned upside down in a blink of an eye.

He had never seen it coming. He knew there were problems brewing between them after he lost his hand. After his discharge from the hospital. But he thought he had been imagining it all. He refused to accept that she was embarrassed of him for being injured and having to leave the Navy. He refused to believe that she went back to her husband.

He gave up everything for her.

The relationship had caused tension between Killian and his older brother, and eventually the control Milah had over him pushed Liam away. Killian lost the close bond with him because of her. Liam didn’t approve of the relationship from the beginning. He didn’t think she was good enough for his brother.

Milah was married, not even separated with her husband at the time and she had tattoos all over her body. Killian fought with his brother many times about her and they eventually stopped talking to each other all together. All of the days they spent working side by side and serving in the British Navy together, turned into bitter memories. And even though Killian crawled back to Liam on his hands and knees, figuratively speaking, begging for forgiveness and even though Killian was now staying at his flat, he was in much too dark a place to hope that things would go back to the way they were before.

He downed another glass of rum. Then another. And a few more. Slowly drowning out the mixture of rage, anguish, and sadness inside of him until he had the courage to stand on his own two feet. Taking a deep breath, he dragged himself out of the stool. Between the jet lag from the treacherously long flight from England and the buzz that took over him, the sting in his heart was still fresh, but somewhat bearable. Killian maneuvered his way through the bar and stepped outside, the chill of the air waking his senses ever so briefly. He took a cab to his brother’s place, his words slurred as he attempted to give the driver the address. Killian was surprised he even remembered what it was.

Keep reading

Western Massachusetts Gothic
  • The hills rise up past cities and towns. They are dotted with firefly carcasses, flecks of industry through the trees, and hungry eyes.
  • The sound of train whistles echoes softly at night. Bears roam where the empty tracks were. There are no stations. You are a pioneer.
  • Bees? No. Wasps. Ladybugs. They survive the winter better than you now.
  • We want a casino. We do not want a casino. We want a casino. We do not want a casino. We want a casino. We do not want a casino. We want a casino. We do not want a casino. We want a casino. We do not want a casino. We want a casino.
    Outside, the wind blows through fields of empty wallets.
  • It is Christmas. There is snow. It is New Year’s. There is snow. It is MLK Day. There is snow. It is St Patrick’s Day. There is snow. Happy Easter. There is snow. Beneath the snow, there is snow.
  • Ghosts are everywhere. Wailing revolutionaries in tattered coats, alive and dead, wait outside of abandoned armories and abandoned houses.
  • The potholes from the never-ending chill of winter make roller coasters of backroads and highways. Soon cars will fly.
  • You want to send your representative a letter. One week later, it comes back unmarked. The mailperson shakes their grizzled head. The east does not exist. The east does not believe the west exists. You do not exist. Mail service in the void has been suspended until further notice.
  • The trash left against tree trunks has been there so long it will soon develop life of its own. You would like to hear its stories.
  • The Connecticut River is high. When you drive by again, it is low. On the way back you see dinosaurs roaming the dry valley their bones call home. Tomorrow it will be wet and high again.
  • The Vietnamese restaurant across the street now has signs in Spanish. Everyone speaks Spanish. Your family speaks Spanish. Try as you might, you cannot form your mouth into the words.
  • You finally have enough money to sign up for classes at one of the desperate colleges. But when you arrive they have doubled the price. They have tripled the price. They have quintupled the price. College will cost your life savings. The price is infinity. The limit does not exist. You collapse weeping.
  • The weatherperson’s promise of sun is an incantation against it. You buy a charm for rain.
  • Your blood type is black coffee. You must drive long distances to receive transfusions. Dunkin Donuts can put sugar in your veins, and Starbucks keeps you weak with diluted promises.
  • They say that history is alive in Massachusetts. It is true. The Revolutionary War has ended, but when you visit the National Armory Museum in Springfield you still hear the gunfire. Day, after day, after day.
  • “Why don’t you leave?” they ask. You cannot leave. You can never leave. When you ask for a ticket, they ask for a confirmation paper you never got. You can never leave.
  • The farther into the trees you go, the paler the human faces you see, and they swell like sullen moons when they tell you to move on, move on. There is no rest for the weary and no home for the abandoned.
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Three Blind Wolves - Echo On The Night Train