The Hellhound’s Bride
Somewhere in my story, they throw me outside.
The door of the bar— The Rusty Anchor, or something similar but it’s still a shithole— hits my shoulder on the way out. I fall, the world tilting because of course, I’m not drunk but withdrawal symptoms always start off with something very fucking similar, and land on my ass in a damp alley.
The smell of garbage and piss hits me fast, a smell that New York seems to be filled with at this point.
“—and stay out, you crazy fuck!” a voice yells from somewhere. It’s probably from the bar, I don’t fucking care, before it slams shut, cutting off the warm, yellow light and the sound of loud rock music with wild banshees screaming.
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