A Moment Of Weakness | Sera
@queenofthecrabbes
My muse is completely drunk and incoherent.
The last shot. That’s what had done it. He had gone from blissful ignorance but completely able to comprehend his surroundings to finding his face squished against a filthy pub floor, with no drive or power to move from his position. He knew he was drunk, but when someone asked him if he needed help, he only slurred, spewing nonsense and murmurs of rubbish from his uncontrollable lips. In the back of his mind, he registered how mortifying it would be for people he knew him to see him like this. But he was far more concerned with the fact that the world was spinning twice as fast as it usually was.
Someone should probably slow it down. Gravity wasn’t going to hold him down forever.
He didn’t want to be this drunk. But at the same time, he felt like he deserved this. He wanted to forget how messed up he was, how he had so much potential, and blew it because of his obsession with corrupting things and causing trouble. He loved rebellions; he loved everything he shouldn’t have loved. And he knew he was a horrible human. And once in a while, he would drink and smoke to forget. He would poison himself in the same way he thought he was poison on the world.
Time, as it did with most intoxicated humans, began to skip. He had moved from his position on the floor to a booth, surrounded by strangers, laughing around them. His head found the table, and after a few moments, he realised the people around him had moved away from him. Dragging his heavy eyes down, he realised he had vomited. He was vaguely aware he needed to move his face away, in order to not drown in his own upchuck, but didn’t have the strength to move.
Another time skip, and he’d obviously found strength to walk. He didn’t know where he was, or where he was heading. It was a narrow road; his surroundings that of a Muggle suburbs. There were dark figures ahead, definitely not wizards, dressed in ragged clothes. He vaguely remembered the smell of cigarettes and marijuana, but wasn’t in the right state of mind to really comprehend it.
Black.
He was in a road. He raised his numb fingers to his lips and pulled them away to glance at. That was a lot of blood. Was it his? The lack of people around him and the dull ache of his limbs suggested it was. A groan escaped his lips, one he didn’t control, and he slouched on a curb. In his incoherent state, he still made out the outskirts of Hogsmeade village.
He had somehow managed to crawl there, although his memory defeated him at this point. He was face down again, just like he had begun his night, staring at the cobblestones that made the usual busy street of Hogsmeade. He briefly pondered the time, and then decided he just didn’t care. Someone would find him here, blood-stained, bruised, and completely lacking in all intellect.
He would just have to hope that whoever found him was a friend.
He heard the clipping of heels, and he wished he could drag his eyes at to look at his company, but his stomach had other ideas, as he dry heaved whilst bumbling out non-existent words.