@hclloabby
Slamming the shot glass back down onto the counter, Grant let the burn in his throat recede only slightly before glancing up to get the bartender’s attention again. “I need another shot.” He managed to mumble hoarsely, pointedly ignoring the bartender’s disapproving look. He didn’t have the energy to deal with an argument though, only coming into the bar to drink until he could hopefully black out and forget this entire day.
The funeral had been bad. Worse than he’d thought. It was bad enough that he hadn’t been able to keep his best friend alive and safe and whole, but having to actually bury him, and see him disappear into the ground, was just icing on the fucking shitfest that was his life right now, he thinks. He’d managed to get through it without crying thankfully, although that had mostly because he’d been numbly going through the motions for the whole thing, but his emotions had come bubbling up to the surface a few hours later, once he’d had time to process.
Getting up and tossing money onto the counter after the bartender had refused to serve him anymore alcohol, he stumbled back from the bar and nearly into the woman that had been standing off to the side. Steadying her with a hand, he blinked suddenly when he felt a small shock travel up his hand from where he touched her, a feeling of familiarity settling over him as he stared at her. “I… Sorry.” He muttered quickly, withdrawing his hand as if burned. He cocked his head to the side in confusion, trying to remember where he’d seen her before and why he had the absolutely certain feeling that he knew her. “I… I know you, don’t I?”
There was something she just abhorred about funerals. It was more than the overwhelming sense of loss, and the long sermons and the fact that the service never seemed to be about the deceased but about the living. It was the fact that from the moment she stepped out of her car, she could feel all eyes on her. The pitying glances and the whispers about how she was Abby Collins. The sister of the soldier they were all gathered to mourn and bury. Abby knew that they meant well, but there was something so manufactured and insincere about funerals that just made bile rise up in her throat. She accepted condolences, thanked people for coming, listened to their stories of how they knew her brother. The hardest part had been when a soldier had delivered the folded American flag to her. She had almost lost all semblance of composure at that point.
Thankfully, after that things started to mellow out. People left, following her parents to their home for refreshments and she remained in front of her brother’s gravestone. She sat there for hours until a groundskeeper kindly informed her the cemetery was closing. Abby didn’t particularly feel like going home so she went to a bar instead. She wanted noise to drown out her thoughts and drinks to drown the ache in her heart. The bar was completely full so she stood a few feet away waiting for an opening to swoop in and asked for a rather large bottle of whiskey. She saw her chance when a fairly drunk man stood up from his stool and moved forward, only to bump into him. She felt his hand grab hers and her eyes widened at the jolt she felt, forcing her to actually pay attention to what was going on. The shock was followed by a sense of familiarity, a wave of comfort that washed over her and had her stepping closer towards it.
That was the peace that had been evading her from the moment she heard of her brother’s dead in combat. The sense that she was tethered to the ground and that she wouldn’t float away and be lost forever if she didn’t pay attention. Abby snapped out of it just as the man apologized and asked if her knew her. Her pulse spiked at the glimmer of hope that he was hit by the same feeling, that connection that she felt down to her bones. She took in the rest of his appearance and recognized his clothing, her stomach churning uncomfortably when she realized where he was actually remembering her from -- and it wasn’t from the tingling sensation that she could still feel on her wrist. “You ... were at my brother’s funeral today, weren’t you?” she asked, hesitantly. “I -- you gave me his flag.”
