Keegan Russ

The squeaking lock surrendered its position, and the door slowly swung open before slamming shut with a deaf, final crash. Not a moment passed before that sound was pierced by a sharp, disappointed scream – yours, erupting from some invisible corner deep within the apartment, like a blade slicing through stagnant air:

– “Keegan! You drank all night at the bar again? You seriously chose that… over me?”

Every word was charged with rage, teetering on the edge of despair, pain pulsing through your voice, yet his silhouette, carved out of the pre-dawn darkness of the hallway, was already too distant, too deep to truly hear.

He wasn’t just drunk; he was soaked in a haze, every nerve of his once finely tuned body groaning under the weight of alcohol and perhaps something far darker he’d carried on his shoulders all these years, but never dared to voice.

His heavy, drunken gait, accustomed to the unevenness of battle, now only shuffled slightly across the parquet floor, yet it retained a certain dreadful, grotesque precision. Without lifting his murky, still dangerous gaze, he passed by you – the invisible source of accusation, the unspoken plea, past everything that had once bound you.

His reply – a low, guttural murmur from a smoke-filled chest, something between an unintelligible, cynical “Yes” or a half-hearted, worried “Calm down, I’m home” – sounded like a crack in granite, instantly swallowed by the space, leaving no trace of a dialogue that could never exist.

Each movement was heavy, as if his body were made of lead and old pain, yet purposeful with fatal precision: through the dim corridor, past vague outlines of furniture, straight into the living room. There, amid this silent crypt of former domesticity, like a sanctuary for his new, relentless deity, waited a shelf lined with bottles – mute, loyal companions offering a temporary, but deeply desired oblivion, quieting the roar in his head for just a moment.

His hand, once accustomed to gripping a trigger and feeling the icy weight of metal, trembled slightly as he reached for a clear, gleaming bottle of vodka. He didn’t just take it—no—he grabbed it like a drowning man clinging to a lifebuoy, feeling through the glass the deceptive warmth of promise.

Then he collapsed onto a timeworn, sagging sofa, its leather cracked and seasoned by years of use. His head, heavy with yesterday’s poison and today’s inevitability, immediately tilted back, and he clenched his teeth, letting out a barely audible groan, pressing his fingers to his temple, which throbbed and pulsed with every drop of alcohol, every unspoken thought.

His eyes, long extinguished, stared into the void where hope might once have lived, now replaced by a bottomless, consuming darkness. He was broken, and the only exit seemed to be the one he held in his trembling hands.

You watched him from afar in the kitchen, drying your hands with a towel. His figure was hunched, frozen, radiating neither triumph nor even weary satisfaction. The spark that usually appeared after a successful mission was gone, along with the confident smirk, the familiar bravado. Only forced silence and a bottle in hand remained.

Your eyes, previously scrutinizing, softened. A gentle whisper to yourself:

– “Alright.”

Your steps were light, almost silent, and he didn’t notice at once. You sat beside him, leaving a little space, but your presence immediately filled the air.

– “Tell me,” came a quiet whisper, wrapped in gentle caution, as if every word were carefully measured not to hurt. But beneath the seriousness lay genuine care, the desire to be near.

He flinched, as if caught off guard, though deep down, perhaps, he had been expecting it. His gaze, previously lost in the void, slowly drifted to you. In it flickered a mixture of shame and despair he had hidden for years. A deep exhale, almost a moan, escaped his chest, breaking the silence.

– “Nothing. I’m just… tired,” he rasped, low, almost unrecognizable. “Of all I carry. All these mistakes, all the decisions… they don’t vanish with the last shot. They remain.”

He took a sip from the bottle, only deepening the bitterness.

– “And you know…,” he paused again, tension in his voice, as if each word struggled to escape the lump in his throat. “And with you… I’m such an asshole, right? I know that. I can’t be any other way. I shut down, push you away when you’re closest. I poison everything I touch. Including you. I don’t want to, but I can’t do otherwise.”

His gaze slipped away again, eyes full of self-reproach and hopelessness. Every word spilled out in fragments, but each carried a truth you had never heard before. This was not a man sharing facts and strategies; this was a man finally opening his soul after years of hiding.

Your hand slowly reached for his, touching the cold glass of the bottle. You didn’t judge, didn’t speak—just stayed close. Your fingers rested over his palm, gentle but firm, silently saying, “You don’t need this.”

He gripped the bottle tighter, closing his eyes for a moment, then, almost unconsciously, his fingers relaxed. A small, quiet gesture that meant more than any words.

You managed to pull the bottle from his hand and, without breaking eye contact, set it on the floor. He watched every movement as if in slow motion, but didn’t resist. His weary, heavy eyes roamed your face, searching for an answer he didn’t find.

– “Keegan…,” your voice soft, yet carrying that insistence he always recognized. “You know this doesn’t solve anything.”

He exhaled hoarsely, finally looking away. – “I know. It just… makes it quieter. For a minute.”

– “But then that minute ends, and the noise comes back louder,” you said calmly, neither pressing nor letting go. Your voice was steady, maintaining the fragile balance between care and firmness. “You know that yourself.”

He remained silent, listening. His chest rose and fell heavily, his temples still throbbed, and his foggy gaze wandered past you. Yet you didn’t move closer, only stayed, holding the fragile connection of presence.

– “You’re too smart, Keegan, to rely on crutches like that,” you continued, softer. “You can endure far more than you think. I’ve seen it. But here…” – you nodded slightly toward the bottle on the floor. – “Here you only hurt yourself more.”

He turned his head, holding your gaze. It held everything at once: stubborn resistance, weakness, the terror of his own helplessness. For a second, he seemed to wrestle with himself, then, swallowing hard, he reached for your hand.

His fingers wrapped around yours slowly, as if testing whether you would allow it. Without breaking eye contact, he lifted your hand to his cheek. His skin was warm, slightly rough from stubble, and he pressed his face to your palm for a moment, seeking in that touch support, a true silence.

– “I don’t want to take it out on you, you know that, right?” he exhaled low, almost a whisper, his voice trembling. “But that’s what happens.”

You didn’t pull back, only brushed your thumb lightly along his cheek, the remnants of black camouflage still there.

– “If you need an escape, find it not in a bar, but in what’s near.”

His next movement was cautious, almost guilty, as if he didn’t believe he had the right. His hand slid over your back, pulling you into an embrace.

– “Sorry for being an asshole,” he murmured into your hair. In that confession, there was more honesty than in any excuse he had ever given.