[ OT ] Sunday Free Write : Leave A Story , Leave A Comment - The Dark Gift Edition !

**Clink** 
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 # # # # # # [ ] ( # dropcap ) 
 
 I stumbled into the bar, my wet trainers squelching against the oak floor, the two items in my pocket clinking together as I moved. There are a multitude of tables set around the room — some short and round, others rectangular and long — with dark hazel chairs clustered around them and patrons gathered at the tables; some old, with more wrinkles than I can count; and some young, their faces fresh and flushed — too young to be buying a drink, in fact — but all were cradling drinks of different sizes in their hands. I doubt the bartender cared how much they drank or if they were underage — this place is pretty shady. 
 
 The bartender himself was a big gruff man with grey stubble on his chin and stony blue eyes that seemed to see all, know all and hear all. Alfred, I think his name is, though many call him Al. I heard it from the old ladies at the market once; they always love a good gossip. 
 
 Well, anyways, a customer was a customer to old Al and on slow nights, he sometimes just let them do whatever they please — he needed the money badly and was always glad for the company customers brought. 
 
 “ Edric! ” A gruff, slurred voice called out. It was James Aburn. 
 
 > *Once a drunkard, always a drunkard they say*. 
 
 He knows me well enough, I suppose. His condition hasn ’ t improved since I saw him last. His face was unshaven and his stubbly chin covered in sausage. 
 
 He had quite obviously had far to many beers, and he gestured to me with the hand that was still clutching an empty mug and exclaimed, “ Matey! How you doin ’? ” His words slurred together in his drunken state., making me grimace. 
 
 `` Good!'' I said in the happiest voice i could muster. If there ’ s one thing my mother taught me it's not to aggravate a drunk, especially a violent man such as James who was best known for his violent tendencies. ( Ahem, bar-fights anyone? ) 
 
 I ignored all of the other patrons, sweeping cooly past them and kept my eyes trained on the bar dead ahead. 
 
 “ Edric, ” Alfred greeted me cooly, his eyes locking onto mine. In one of his hands he held a dirty rag and in the other held a dirty mug — presumably one of James ’ s; he probably shattered the last few. I trudged up to the bar, my hands hanging limply at my sides, fingers twitching. 
 
 All eyes were on me now and all voices halted. “ Alfred, ” I greeted in the same tone — cool, and like nothing had happened at all since we last met. I gestured loosely around me, “ Nothin ’ much has happened since I ’ ve been gone. Same old, same old. ” I drawled. 
 
 *Pish-posh*, I thought. *That' s a load of rubbish*! 
 
 Alfred grimaced, his shoulders drooping. “ Yeah, ” He said defeated. He turned his gaze upwards from the mug and leaned over the bar, his hands folded neatly across the wooden top. “ Same room as always — Number 21 and just breakfast in the morning; no lunch? ” He asked, but it wasn ’ t really a question, more of a statement. 
 
 I nodded. “ Yeah, that ’ d be great. ” My tone was cheerful, but I couldn ’ t disguise the malice in my voice. 
 
 He nodded stiffly and picked up another glass, rubbing it down with the dirty cloth. “ Right, ” He muttered, and that was the only word I heard him utter for the rest of the night. 
 
 After a few hours of light drinking, I finally decided to retire of the night saying to the jostling crowds, “ Nah! You shall have more fun without me! ” They were drunk and when you are drunk you either become a brave soul, or a pushover. Luckily for me, tonight they were all pushovers. 
 
 “ G'night! ” They called and resumed their heavy drinking. 
 
 “ Goodbye. ” I turned on my heel and slid my hand onto the banister. I could hear the low notes of a traditional drinking song; *Ole ye Drink*, I do n't even think that makes grammatical sense. Heck - I do n't even know what it means, let alone it's grammar. Then I slowly ascended the steps with my hand trailing behind me. As I walked, two items clinked together in my pocket. One was my room key, an old rusted thing— 
 
 I could hear the crowds shouting and I could hear footsteps rushing towards the stairs. I picked up my pace slightly and began to jog up the flights of stairs. I still kept the same bored smile on my face as before, even as I ran towards the opened window that I prepared my escape, just in case. 
 
 —the other was a small flask, it ’ s contents long gone. And on the side of the bottle? A withered skull and cross. 
 
 Oh, I ’ m going to jail alright.
