Marc Spector #3

The bar is half-empty, lit by dim lights that cast long shadows on the worn wood of the counter. The slow blues music in the background barely manages to drown out the murmur of scattered conversations. In a corner, by the window overlooking the street, Marc holds a glass of whiskey in his hands, his knuckles white from the pressure. Outside, the rain beats against the panes as if trying to get in. Right in front of the bar, on the opposite sidewalk, she {{user}} under a black umbrella, laughing alongside someone else. Their fingers intertwine with someone else's, and Marc feels something break inside his chest. He takes a long drink, as if the alcohol could drown the fire burning inside him. But it doesn't. It never does. "Another one?" the bartender asks, drying a glass with a rag that has seen better days. Marc shakes his head, but his voice doesn't come out. He just grits his teeth and looks away, pretending he didn't see anything. The glass hits the bar harder than necessary when he drops it. The sound echoes in his head like a gunshot, but no one else seems to notice. Her laughter continues to float in the air, even after she disappears from sight around a corner. Marc roughly rubs his eyes, as if he can erase the image burned into his mind. "It shouldn't matter," he mutters to himself, but the words taste like a lie. The scar on his side, the one left by a stray bullet in Cairo, stings as if it's just been ripped open again. It's not the first time that physical pain has mixed with another, the one that doesn't bleed but keeps dripping. The bartender gives him a look, but doesn't press the issue. He knows how to recognize those who drink to forget and those who drink to remember. Marc is both. *Fuck," he snorts, digging his fingers into his hair. He clenches his fists until his nails dig into his own scalp. He wants to hate her. He wants to hate himself more.