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Summary
The worst part about knowing the exact date of one’s death was to survive it. In October, Tim’s sorry corpse should have been six feet under and well into the process of rotting into a yellow-brown stain at the bottom of his casket, but instead… here he was. Full of holes and seams like a battered doll and a good third of his body covered in thick scar tissue from where the fires had touched him, but - alive, filled to the brim with regret, and with absolutely nothing left to aim that pain towards, nothing to make of it, nothing to drown it in.
Nothing, at least, if not copious amounts of alcohol and sex that he didn’t want to be having.
In other words - statement of Timothy Stoker, about a particularly fucked up night in an already long series of fucked up nights that precede it, but like, it's almost nice this time. Almost.
New chapter added 10/12/2024.