You're drunk again.

You're drunk and the world's upside down and spinning all at the same time.

And Sam's in the corner, ignoring you, pretending you're not there, cause he's sulking again, cause that's what Sam does.

He sulks and he sits and he patronizes.

Sitting there, thinking he's better than you. You know that's what he's thinking. You can hear it in the way he talks to you. See it in the way he looks at you.

He wants to go back to the motel, back to Stanford, back to Jess, back to a time that didn't exist when he was normal.

But it's not real. It never was.

You're drunk. You're not thinking straight. You're not even making sense.

Your brain is soaking in alcohol, which seems to happen more and more lately and you can't make sense of what's going on around you, what's you're even doing anymore.

It's automatic. You've been doing it for so long you don't know how to do anything else. It's all you know and all you have.

But Sam wants more.

And hell, you want more too. You think. You don't know anymore.

You want to honor the old man, even though you know he fucked you over royally on several occasions.

You want to hold onto his memory, hold onto his ideals, hold onto whatever made you follow him blindly for so fucking long, whatever made you hand your life over to him all those years ago, whatever made you sacrifice everything.

You can't seem to collect your thoughts.

They stray, and you can't seem to catch up to them.

Sam's still in the corner, warm beer on the table, untouched for a long time, waiting, waiting for you, waiting for change, waiting for anything.

Always waiting.

It's dark, and the smoke is probably murder on your lungs, but you can't bring yourself to care, because the waitress is throwing her cleavage at you, and you know you're supposed to smile and slur a sweet line that'll get her into that bathroom stall with you.

It's what you do. It's what you are.

But you lost the feeling for it years ago.

You don't really feel anything anymore.

The towns are all the same, the bars and motels blending into on another. Same town, same faces, same problems.

But what about your problems?

The ones that keep you up at night? The ones that wake you when you're sleeping? The ones that drive you into the arms of woman after woman?

The fear. The undying fear that it's all for nothing. That none of it matters and you're still going to hell, no matter how hard you try.

You're thinking too hard again. You have to stop that. It's not healthy. Though neither is the Jack that burns through your veins, or that imploring stare that ghosts Sammy's face.

It's burning you from the inside out. And you don't know what to do.

Is there anything to do?

Fucking drunk.

You don't know what's happening anymore or how much time has passed. You're lost in your head and you can't seem to find your way out. You've been staring at nothing for the longest damn time, and Sammy's been staring right back for at least half of it.

He must see it. That glazed look in your eyes. The faraway look that stares into him.

But what can you do? You're stuck. Stuck in this life, stuck in this job, stuck in this bar until you can convince your legs to cooperate and lead you out onto the cold streets of wherever the fuck you are right now.

Who the fuck knows. All the fucking towns are the same.

Your mind is swearing more. That can't be a good sign. Anger plus alcohol is never a good combination.

Time to go.

You nod your head to Sammy, and he's up in an instant, no evidence of the sauce circulating his veins.

And you're suddenly embarrassed.

You stand and sway, but Sammy swings a shoulder under yours without a word and leads you out; out into the cold and into everything you know and you don't.

He slides you into the passenger seat of the Impala and takes the wheel, assuming older brother responsibilities, which hurts someplace inside of you that you wish was dead.

And you drive off into the night of an unnamed state in your own little circle of hell and hope that the world doesn't notice that the drunk has started to cry.