KORBIN
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
To make you bow and spit it out?
The murmur of voices that filled the air was a distant buzzing of flies in his ears, the kind that swarmed around corpses in every part of the world. One would think that nothing would rot in a place that was always frozen, but they did. Food forgotten, people abandoned, animals with hidden wounds left to fester. The rot was everywhere, and all it took for it to thrive was a little neglect. Or willfull ignorance.
The taste of stale food lingered on his tongue. Whoever ran the kitchen now was doing a poor job of it. The grease was old, an unwashed pan or butter not kept cool enough, or maybe it was the meat that started to turn rancid - either way, it ruined the flavor and left an aftertaste of carrion in his mouth.
Korbin pushed the plate aside, barely touched. The whiskey was already gone from his glass, and he couldn't muster enough energy to call for more. Already his blood was humming with it, enough to make the trembling of his hands stop. What was he even doing here? He was not hungry. Did not want company. And looking around at his sister's bar - his bar, now - was like poking a dagger into the open wound, as if to make sure it would never get a chance to close.
Maybe that was why he had come. Tormenting himself had become Korbin's favourite pastime. Bonus points if he could make others around him miserable too.
Weaver would smack him over the head if she saw what he had become.
The taste of stale food lingered on his tongue. Whoever ran the kitchen now was doing a poor job of it. The grease was old, an unwashed pan or butter not kept cool enough, or maybe it was the meat that started to turn rancid - either way, it ruined the flavor and left an aftertaste of carrion in his mouth.
Korbin pushed the plate aside, barely touched. The whiskey was already gone from his glass, and he couldn't muster enough energy to call for more. Already his blood was humming with it, enough to make the trembling of his hands stop. What was he even doing here? He was not hungry. Did not want company. And looking around at his sister's bar - his bar, now - was like poking a dagger into the open wound, as if to make sure it would never get a chance to close.
Maybe that was why he had come. Tormenting himself had become Korbin's favourite pastime. Bonus points if he could make others around him miserable too.
Weaver would smack him over the head if she saw what he had become.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Nothing makes you turn around
