The ringing in his ears drowned out most of what she said. Fortunately perhaps, for both of them. As the girl carefully put a table between them Korbin focused on simply breathing, hoping to somehow quench the urge to go after her.
Here it was again. The monster. The cold, cruel beast that lashed out and threatened, that raged and snapped at anything and anyone that got close. Was this him? Had he always been like this? Or had something snapped inside him when Weaver died? He had been angry before and worried about it, but never like this. Gods, what was wrong with him?
Shaking, clammy with cold sweat as the worst of the rage faded, Korbin watched a pouch of herbs hit the floor before his feet. Staring at it, he slowly began to realize what he had agreed to do. No drink. That meant no numbness to ease the pain. No blackness to grant him sleep, no matter how brief. He would be left naked in the void, and nothing and no one could make it better.
There was no better. Was it really worth it? Was the cold wind and the White plains, the small town and the familiar strangers really worth it? Would rather live in pain here than drink himself into a grave somewhere else?
He didn't know. Didn't know if this was an oath worth keeping.
The future was cursed regardless of what he chose. Halo or not Halo? It didn't matter so... might as well just stick with what he knew.
Turning without a word, Korbin didn't take the herbs. Just headed straight for the door and slammed it hard after himself. Wishing it actually helped make him feel anything.
As it turned out, he was in for a lot of feeling over the days that followed. Stubborn as he was, Korbin was firm in his belief that he could quit and that it was just a matter of willpower to stop. He didn't actually want this, mind. But somewhere between the threats and the cajoling, he had started to doubt his own words. It lit a fire to prove at least to himself that he wasn't addicted, that the drink was a conscious choice, and that stopping wasn't a problem.
He was wrong.
It started predictably with the shakes a few hours after the last drink. Inconvenient, but he could suffer through it. They grew worse though, and the next day the fever set in. He had been unable to sleep for a long time, and the anxiety attacks that shook him did nothing to help. His condition grew steadily worse, hour by hour, until he was so out of his mind with hallucinations that he was shunted off to a corner and watched by concerned customers.
When the fist seizure started, he was carried bodily by the owner of the old tavern into the medical station, and dropped onto a cot. Korbin didn't notice; he was half unconscious, shaking uncontrollably as the toxins wrecked his body.
Here it was again. The monster. The cold, cruel beast that lashed out and threatened, that raged and snapped at anything and anyone that got close. Was this him? Had he always been like this? Or had something snapped inside him when Weaver died? He had been angry before and worried about it, but never like this. Gods, what was wrong with him?
Shaking, clammy with cold sweat as the worst of the rage faded, Korbin watched a pouch of herbs hit the floor before his feet. Staring at it, he slowly began to realize what he had agreed to do. No drink. That meant no numbness to ease the pain. No blackness to grant him sleep, no matter how brief. He would be left naked in the void, and nothing and no one could make it better.
There was no better. Was it really worth it? Was the cold wind and the White plains, the small town and the familiar strangers really worth it? Would rather live in pain here than drink himself into a grave somewhere else?
He didn't know. Didn't know if this was an oath worth keeping.
The future was cursed regardless of what he chose. Halo or not Halo? It didn't matter so... might as well just stick with what he knew.
Turning without a word, Korbin didn't take the herbs. Just headed straight for the door and slammed it hard after himself. Wishing it actually helped make him feel anything.
As it turned out, he was in for a lot of feeling over the days that followed. Stubborn as he was, Korbin was firm in his belief that he could quit and that it was just a matter of willpower to stop. He didn't actually want this, mind. But somewhere between the threats and the cajoling, he had started to doubt his own words. It lit a fire to prove at least to himself that he wasn't addicted, that the drink was a conscious choice, and that stopping wasn't a problem.
He was wrong.
It started predictably with the shakes a few hours after the last drink. Inconvenient, but he could suffer through it. They grew worse though, and the next day the fever set in. He had been unable to sleep for a long time, and the anxiety attacks that shook him did nothing to help. His condition grew steadily worse, hour by hour, until he was so out of his mind with hallucinations that he was shunted off to a corner and watched by concerned customers.
When the fist seizure started, he was carried bodily by the owner of the old tavern into the medical station, and dropped onto a cot. Korbin didn't notice; he was half unconscious, shaking uncontrollably as the toxins wrecked his body.
In loving memory of when I gave a shit
KORBIN
HALE
HALE
