New Story Attempt (1)

This is slightly different from the summary I wrote in the poll, but decided to go a different route. I wrote this in one sitting, some stuff may not make sense. Some stuff need revising and explaining.

The story should kick in from the next chapter.

If you don't like this, please leave a comment telling me so and I'll come up with something else.

xXx

"Look, Marcus, you're a nice guy." Ashley said, and Marcus knew that any girl who started a conversation with those three words was already rejecting him. In this case, she was breaking up with him. "But this… this isn’t working. You can see that, can’t you? You’ve changed.”

Marcus lazily swirled the amber liquid in the glass, not missing the deepening frown on her face. 

She closed her eyes, leaning forward, the picture of a mother whose patience had run out. "This was an emotional time for me. I’ve thought a lot about it, only to realize the kind of parasite you are. I blame myself for believing there was any good left in you. You’re definitely not the guy I fell in love with. You’re… unkept. You’re spiraling. And unfit for any type of relationship. Marcus, you’ll die painfully, and alone." 

A rueful smile was reflected in the whiskey. That kind of hurt. Way to go, Ashley. 

Ashley held up a hand before he could say something he'd regret. She had his attention now as watched his life being ruined through tired, droopy eyes and an exhausted frown.

"Don't bother trying to talk to me again after today because my mind is made up. If you try, you and I won't speak again. For real this time."

"Whoever this guy is must be a fuckin' saint."

There is always another guy. It’s kind of a rule. More often than not, a catalyst. 

Ashley leaned back in the chair with a thump. "Will is a very generous, hardworking, down-to-Earth guy. And, in a word, stable."

"While we're making self-aggrandizing comparisons... is this fuckhead a tall guy too? Maybe with a nice physique that's a tad lean and muscular. Don't even get me started on his personality. Why, he's almost an absolute saint compared to what you're giving me here, huh?"

The pock-faced bartender walked over and placed another shot of whiskey in front of him. "That would be your tenth drink, buddy…" The bartender warned with a smirk that told him, 'We can't wait to watch you fuck yourself up' as Marcus' wallet did the talking, opening up and telling him, 'Why, we'd love to see how far this whiskey takes us'.

The bartender's smirk vanished when he took a moment to catch the look in Marcus's eye. The man left him and Ashley to talk, well, for Marcus to be talked to, rather.

Marcus eyed her without blinking, staring until the intensity began to make her uneasy.

"C-Can you quit looking at me like that...?"

He was usually a lanky guy, a six footer with a hairline that had begun to recede like his confidence, his face starting to lose its sharp features, becoming squatter, puffier. 

He might've been called handsome a couple of years ago, under the right lighting, when people could be persuaded to see something other than the typical office jock, perhaps. The lifestyle had taken its toll on his body.

Long hours at his desk and behind his computer weren't exactly as heart pumping as people imagined.

It made you fat, so he'd dropped the office lunch hour to once a month and ate microwave-ready sandwiches every night for dinner instead, the dinners sometimes accompanied with a beer or two (okay, often) to make his evenings pass easier when the sleep didn't come to him fast enough.

That had, unfortunately, made him develop a little pot belly, so he'd eventually abandoned beer and embraced booze in the hopes it might not impact him so hard.

He'd chosen liquor not for taste or health, but so he might make all those overtime hours count by getting fucking smashed in the weekends, only to sober up long enough to not lose his job. A long-term solution that hadn't really been working for him at all.

Nowadays, he would never be called handsome. And he couldn't tell whether that was due to his unhealthy habits or the depression, which, in all honesty, could've simply been a side effect from them.

In hindsight, he could see why Ashley was trying to pull the pin out now and blow his life up in front of his face. Marcus was a thirty-seven-year-old broke piece-of-shit whose prospects for finding better in life was far outpaced by the probability of hitting rock bottom within the next couple of days.

It wasn't the fact his favorite pass-time wasn't Halo or Fortnite but fucking alcohol.

It definitely wasn’t because the only way he could get it hard these days was drinking a glass and a half. It didn't help that Ashley had gained closer to 20 kilos in the last few months that she stopped cooking for him. The bitch was still kinda hot, though; truth was he fell more for her ass than her face.

The biggest problem was that,  you see, Marcus wasn't stable.

Marcus was, by definition, not stable. He was, in fact, unstable in all aspects of life, whether it be his weight or his finances or, ultimately, his ability to hold on to those around him, his fickle woman included.

What a fucking nightmare, he was.

Not that his current relationship status mattered to her anymore. At that point, her eyes had drifted to the exit and her mind seemed elsewhere. She seemed impatient now, as if eager for their chat to end.

"I'm sorry, Ashley."

Her body went stiff, and she whipped her face around to stare at him like he was crazy. Which, quite frankly, he probably was.

"W-what?!" She sputtered. "You don't apologize and expect things to be alright, Marcus!" Her anger was building rapidly. "Your apologies mean nothing at this point! You mean nothing! There is no need to apologize. Ever! I don't even know why you do it because it changes nothing. All I want now is for you to stop bothering me."

The coldness with which she stared back at him felt like it could tear out a person's soul.

"I wasn't apologizing. I was just expressing sympathy for the man you are dumping me for." Marcus said. "That guy is the real loser."

"Fuck you."

Her final words before storming away.

That would be the last time he would ever see her.

"Fuck you, Marcus," Marcus repeated, savoring the irony, pouring whiskey past his dry lips, taking a moment to watch the dance of fire inside the glass as he held it out from the dimmed light overhead, then taking a generous swig.

He knocked the glass back onto the counter, waited the usual three seconds for the fiery liquid to hit his throat, and let his body lurch backwards in surprise as if the burn was just as powerful as the very first time.

The lukewarm whiskey left his gut burning and made him feel warm in the best possible of ways. It numbed the heartache the same way alcohol numbs the nerves. The mental aspect of a relationship break-up is the worst.

His chest still felt hollow.

Marcus did love Ashley, a little bit. He got with her more out of a sense of urgency than affection.

Still single and dateless at 37? Not only that, but broke and going downhill fast? This was beginning to get embarrassing.

But she was a sweet lady, at the beginning. Looked out for him. Cooked for him. Encouraged him to do better in life. Maybe Marcus did become too dependent on her, and perhaps it was her nature not to be too forceful about it that led them here, to him drinking himself into a stupor at a bar, awaiting a chance to finally be blackout.

Of course, Ashley didn't know why he fucked himself up like this.

In truth, neither did Marcus.

All Marcus Hale really wanted was to be the happiest, the wealthiest, the most famous motherfucker around.

Maybe fame was too lofty a goal. He would settle for being happy and wealthy. That would make him feel good.

Maybe it was selfish, wanting both, and maybe no man deserved more than the common man's portion. He couldn't really pinpoint where it had gone wrong, or even how he had reached the point that led to his recent descent into this miserable abyss, but the choices that had gotten him this far hadn't included ones with no consequences.

As Marcus looked back, it seemed, apart from a handful of minor mishaps, every decision made him believe that just around the corner, fortune would be waiting for him in full, so long as he tried a little bit more.

Work harder. Take that second job. Believe the dream will come true.

And it always came at the cost of his health, his relationships, at times his sanity.

Now, Marcus was alone, surrounded by strangers and misery, and he was stuck. Stuck in his own little shit town, in a state full of fucking losers, unable to progress anywhere in life.

He had graduated college with a 3.9 GPA but his crippling debt kept his career ambitions firmly within a bottle, at the bottom, chasing one drink after the other. His mother had died right when he graduated, leaving him with nothing but a debt-riddled grave. He hadn't known about her debts until it was already too late. He didn't expect to inherit anything since they were piss poor, let alone a lifetime of payments.

You see, success, to a man like Marcus, was so simple, it was practically a math problem: effort + time = profit. Each and every waking day, until his hands start shaking with tremors, then get arthritis so bad, it will hurt just to breathe.

He worked so hard to pay off all these debts, barely seeing a glimmer of the end ever.

Marcus believed he was a nice guy, deep down. His ex's could tell you that. That one prostitute he lost his virginity to could attest that, too. He'd done okay growing up, had a nice smile, had great hair, had a stable personality, never a hot-tempered, violent brute like those big-jowled douchebags.

In a room full of pompous asses, Marcus was the one decent chap. He tried to get along with everyone. He worked harder than everyone. Studied harder than everyone. Was more passionate than everyone.

Marcus had never hurt anyone. Not a single soul. Not even a stray animal.

Why was the universe intent on being such a dickhole, and giving him none of the fruits of his efforts?

Perhaps, his problem was trying too hard, to fit in where no one really fit in. To be happy where no one was, and there's no shame in admitting it.

Sometimes he would stare at the clock on his laptop, not so much calculating the amount of work he needed to do for his current assignment, or mentally reminding himself to log in to the website to finish up that bit of overtime that would've allowed him a vacation in ten years, if luck held.

Rather, it was simply an idle moment wherein Marcus wondered how many more seconds would be shaved off his remaining life, and whether spending it toiling away at the same desk, same town, same shitty everything, was worth it.

"Shit, this whiskey is so strong it's making my eyes burn."

"You're crying, buddy." The bartender wiped down the counter.

"Oh." Marcus frowned and lowered the empty glass with a sniffle. "So I am. Shit."

"If you're done drinking, get out of here and get back home. Stop wasting all your money."

"Is this coming from a professional alcoholic who deals a living with drunken bastards, or is the voice inside my head trying to tell me I have a problem? Don't answer. Neither."

"You're crazy."

The man shook his head.

Marcus sniffled again. Oh great, now his nose was stuffy too. "Hey. You wouldn't happen to sell drugs, would you?"

The bartender snapped a wide-eyed look at him. "... Sorry? I mean, going by the state you’re in, you're probably better off not having any—"

"I mean, don't you have a passcode where I can access the good stuff from the back?"

The bartender shook his head, chuckling. "That only happens in the movies, right?"

Marcus laughed out loud, wiping the tears out his eyes with his forearm. “Right…”  

'Sure wish we lived in the movies.' He thought. Then it would have a good, moral, feel-good ending, he reckoned.

Where was his movie ending? Marcus pondered, staring out the grimy windows and into the busy, grey-speckled roads outside, where his best years of youth were stolen away from him in an attempt to live a 'normal', debt-free life. This was a town where ambition was a disease, and dreams, a cancer. He hated his fucking hometown and the people who lived in it.

And for some godforsaken reason, Marcus hated the country, state, and universe all the more for condoning this stagnating environment where no progress was made and every fucker he met was in complete support of a slow, drudged pace at life.

"Thank you for the booze." Marcus said, standing up.

The bartender began wiping the spot where Marcus's glass left a circle stain of droplets. 

Marcus sighed and moved towards the exit, seemingly following Ashley's trail of perfume. It lingered where her warm, curvy figure had been. A smell which didn't belong in this shitty bar, or in Marcus's life any more. He staggered, holding his head, feeling the prickly sting of tears return.

He covered his eyes; didn't want others to see it.

'You have so much potential, Marcus, but you're caught in a cycle of self-destructive habits.' Ashley used to say, back when their relationship was still strong. There was so much life in her eyes. 'Let me help you.'

'Marcuuuuuus, do you know how much I love you? Do you? Hmm? Hmm? I don’t think I’d be able to live without you.'

'Marcus, I bought matching pajamas! Aren't they cute?'

'Marcus, one day we'll get out of this place. We'll live a better life... be more patient.'

'Marcus, I still love you, you know?'

‘Marcus, it’s okay. You’ll find another job.’

‘Marcus, stop drinking.’

'Marcus, why aren't you listening to me?'

'Marcus, you're hurting me...'

'Marcus, please, you'll lose me like this...'

'Marcus...'

'I hate you...'

With tears in her eyes. That day.

Today, she didn't cry. It was cold, like a wintery Tuesday evening, and just about as loveless as one, too. Ashley didn't shed a single tear. If her conscience still harbored any feelings towards him, she didn't show it. Not even a lingering moment.

He wanted to claw his eyes out, and his heart too. Whiskey didn’t help with heartbreak, instead leaving him more disorientated, more resentful and a hell of a lot more lonely. He staggered again, swaying, until his shoulder bumped someone hard enough to turn their drink, spilling it all over their shirt.

Marcus fluttered his hand like a fan. "Ah, I'm sorry..."

"You piece of shit..." The tall, built man snarled, large veins popping out his forehead and neck. "Are you fucking blind?!"

"I'll pay for the dry cleaning—whoa—"

He was grabbed by the collar and nearly lifted off the floor. Considering how tall Marcus was, the strength this man possessed was something to marvel.

"Fuck is your problem? Where do you think this is?" He yelled. The bar had become deathly quiet, watching the exchange.

"Oh, shit, he's crying." One of the man's besties chuckled. "He's actually crying."

"I've never seen someone cry in a bar before." The other jeered.

"Look man, just let go of him. I'll make sure you're paid. It's cool. No big deal." The third one stood between Marcus and the drunk stranger, offering a smooth, even hand.

But the tall, buff dude wasn't convinced so easily.

"I'll smash in that pathetic face of yours, bitch." He said and threw his punch, landing one clean across the cheek.

Marcus saw a crown of stars spinning like they did in cartoons, except that they wore Ashley's face. And she was screaming 'I hate you', 'I hate you', 'I hate you', 'You should die painfully', 'I really really really really really hate you', with her eyes open as big as tennis balls.

And then the thought that she was probably being railed by that fucking Will or Bill, whatever the fuck his name was.

And now this motherfucker starting shit.

This world really couldn't even let him be fucking sad in a bar.

His blood boiled.

The dude was about to smack him again. Marcus felt all the resentment from years of hard-fucking-work turn into hatred. How unfair his life had been, and how undeserving he was of a punch. All the while, the fading, spinning Ashley-heads told him he had no pride.

That he was a deadbeat who couldn't hold down a job, pay his debts and maintain a healthy relationship, and now deserved this beating because he deserved worse.

What Marcus did next made the patrons all the more shocked than they already were.

He grabbed a bottle of beer from someone's table and shattered the damn thing across that bald skull, a loud crack breaking the silence of the bar just as murmurs had begun to ripple.

A dozen witnesses watched, mouths agape, as he savagely proceeded to pelt the man's head with all of the anger and hatred and pure fuckery in his entire, wasted life.

The sound it produced was wet and crunchy.

It wasn't particularly long nor drawn out. But, the blood looked real.

His buddies backed away like they'd seen a rabid dog.

Marcus blinked, standing up and nearly face-planting from the vertigo.

Some other guy was holding his arm to stop him from further damaging the beaten dude's face. The face, still contorted by rage and anguish and embarrassment, no longer existed as more than meat sacks. His skull was splintered like a cracked egg. His face looked like it went 3 miles per hour into a brick wall.

Even in the low light, blood spatter could be clearly seen on the wooden floors.

Someone was hysterically shouting to 'call the police' and 'what in the fuck' and 'how do you break a fucking glass bottle into someone's face like that?!'

The few regulars who were familiar with Marcus Hale looked like they'd never met him before as he blinked awake, like it were someone else who'd done such a thing.

"Fuck..."

Marcus' hands trembled. The glass shards had cut into his flesh, his blood dripping from open cuts. He didn't even feel it until now. 

His blood. The man’s blood.

On his hands, still littered with tiny, sparkling fragments of the bottle he used for manslaughter. 

No one stopped Marcus as he ran towards the exit.

The tall, buff man seemed dead, still splayed like he'd never get up, surrounded in his own pool of blood.

Sweat began to prickle on Marcus's forehead as he left. His throat was parched and tight, and his legs wobbly and weak. The faces at the windows followed him outside. He could hear his footsteps drumming hard against the pavement. He could almost hear the police sirens ringing out any minute now.

"Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit."

Why...?

Why did things always end up this way?

Bitter tears flowed out. Marcus wished there was a hole, deep enough, just right there where he could disappear.

What a complete shitshow.

Maybe he wasn't such a good guy after all.

'Marcus, do you even care about me?'

'Marcus, we can't stay like this. You have to change.'

'Marcus. We'll work through this together, but only if you choose me. Please, choose me!'

'Marcus, choose me...!'

"Aaaaaaaaghhhh!"

And so he screamed as he ran, attempting to escape. Where? Somewhere. Anywhere but here. He would rather be dead than to be sent to prison, stuck inside a 7 x 7 square of doom, because a drunken fight got him into manslaughter and first degree murder and whatever other crime a bottle could shatter someone's skull into.

In his delusions, all he saw was the same outcome, where he'd still go to jail, spend the rest of his years chugging piss-water and eating rat in prison while someone was fucking his man-pussy, maybe two dudes at the same time.

So he ran.

But not fast enough. He couldn't possibly outrun the cops on drunken legs and a sloshed brain, unable to decide where the hell he was going or what he could do now. That was until he saw a young girl getting out of her parked car, picking up the groceries on her back seat.

One glance told Marcus she was alone.

He sprinted towards her, his thumping clearly alerting her. She was ready to scream bloody murder when her eyes met Marcus'. She looked horrified. And rightly so.

Marcus appeared crazy.

Scared her into immobility. She even let go of all the shopping she'd just got. He pushed her aside, hoping she didn't fall and die or break her spine or get a concussion. He didn't want to have her on the conscience too.

He got into the car. The keys were still in the ignition.

She shrieked loud enough for an entire block to hear, but was already out of sight by then as Marcus hit the gas pedal and floored his stolen car off into the night.

A small blessing in a world full of torment.

Maybe things did work out.

Though, the chances were low that anyone could manage something in this unfair world. He only realized that now.

For the rest of the ride, Marcus thought long and hard, trying to get away, somehow, somewhere far enough, but he couldn't really think beyond his nose.

Tears still continued to fall, and the whiskey didn't help keep him alert, yet kept him alert for long enough to swerve out of danger every now and then.

Marcus hoped Ashley could find some measure of happiness. Even if it's not with him. If it's with that Mr. Fucking 'I'll Make A Decent Life For You' guy, it might turn out good in the end for her. She might learn to forgive him.

"Ah...ahhha." He had no idea whether to cry or laugh. It hurt. To laugh. Laughing seemed to hurt a lot. Crying didn't, so he continued doing so, wiping the mucus off his face.

Trees blundered past his peripheral. The highway, never-ending and unending.

Maybe he should go to another country, if possible. Restart life there or something.

He swerved towards the nearest exit, and it was right after the roundabout, under the shade of an underpass...

"Fuck!"

A roadblock.

An officer was already out. He saw Marcus, and gestured for him to stop the car. There was no way they had already caught up to him, so this was probably just some normal, routine bullshit. He couldn't even stop. The inside of the car reeked of alcohol. The registration was not his. And he had blood in his hands.

He sped away.

The officer, realizing Marcus's intentions to escape, picked up his walkie-talkie.

Marcus drove back into the ramp and into the highway. He was going as fast as his brain allowed him, which was too fast. His heart was beating too damn fast too. The red and blue flashes in his rear view told him, you are a murderer, you are a thief, you are a bumbling imbecile and that your luck, it appears, has finally dried out.

He had committed so many crimes in the span of what, an hour?

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

He started slamming his fist against the steering wheel.

Life was so unfair, and no matter the amount of effort poured into something, success or failure seemed to fall based solely upon a rigged, ever changing lottery.

What a massive crock of shit.

'Marcus. Just tell me why. I can't help you if I don't know, I can't sympathize if you don't understand...'

'Marcus, I need you.'

'Marcuuuuus.'

Fuck everything.

Life sucked.

It was one disappointment after the other.

When would he see that long-promised payout? Was success ever a real possibility? How could someone have such a lucky start in life only to stumble at its beginning and never recover.

Behind him, what began as one vehicle, slowly became two, and gradually multiplied over the course of ten kilometers of highway.

At some point, a helicopter began tracking him too, the spinning blades making too much noise.

"......"

Marcus felt his lungs becoming unbearably heavy. So much so he couldn't breathe. It was a weird kind of feeling, being at the end of the rope. If he stopped the car right now, would his punishment lessen at all, if he chose to be honest? Maybe not for the manslaughter and grand theft auto and probably all these other new charges he was sure to rack up on top of that.

The throbbing sensation pulsating inside his head wouldn't stop. The world spun around him, his vision swimming.

Why was his life so miserable? Why could his sister have kids and a happy home, or his cousin be married to the person he loved since childhood, or his classmates be able to progress and reach their goals without the world conspiring against them...

This pity party deserved a nobel for the most depressing set of whiney-bitch excuses, ever.

There was no place for self-pity in this world. And no reason for his inability to get ahead in life. Maybe, just maybe, this could also have had something to do with the way Marcus, being the dumb bastard that he was, handled his failures.

Fuck, just think about how good it felt to bash that guy's head in like a pumpkin.

Maybe he was really a bad person...

'Marcus? Hey? Answer me. Don't drift off...'

Ah, and her voice.

One look at the rear-view mirror cemented his decision.

He wouldn't stop.

But at least he ought to call her one more time.

Marcus reached for his pocket and found his smartphone. Dialed her number. What would he tell her? That he'd just killed someone? That he'd just robbed someone, and that he's being chased down the interstate highway by the law? That despite all the ups and downs, she was the only woman he could never say he had not loved.

The call rang and rang.

He wiped the tears.

The beep beep continued for what seemed an eternity.

No one picked up.

She wasn't going to. He already knew, of course.

What better day was it than today to die.

He glanced at the road, still filled with many cars that hadn't managed to get out of the way, with the flashing lights getting closer. He thought for a long time; his decisions thus far hadn't done a lot of good to a lot of people, least of all his own. But in that moment, as his finger hovered over the hang up button, his heart suddenly beating with renewed purpose, he knew, that had it all come down to a repeat, Marcus would have tried his hardest again, if not harder than the first.

'Marcus, I'm scared you'll do something stupid if you keep this up.'

'Marcus, please come to your senses... stop drinking.'

'Marc—'

Ah, shut up.

The police was now coming from the front too. They even did the courtesy of laying a spike strip. Within a minute, it'd blow a tire and ground him, perhaps cause him to flip and get ejected.

Fuck that.

'I'll die on my own terms, at least.'

Marcus suddenly steered to the left, the tires screeching against asphalt as the vehicle ploughed straight into the guardrail. A sudden, strange, indescribable feeling shot outwards like firecrackers exploding in his brain. And suddenly, just like that, time stood still, and a peaceful nothingness washed over him.

Was this what people called acceptance?

'Is this really your last solution, you shit-headed bastard?'

He asked himself.

'If I'm going to die anyway, I might as well kill myself in style.'

He answered himself. The car swerved off the highway, rammed through the flimsy barrier, and into the air, soaring into the empty night. A sense of lightness filled him.

'Am I... flying?'

He looked down and saw the police cars as little toys, chasing after him. He was truly flying. He thought of Ashley, one last time. And his mother.

He thought of his sister and her kids. He thought of all the good times he'd had. He thought of all the bad ones too.

He even thought of the motherfucker with the shattered skull.

He thought of all the things he could have done, and all the things he hadn't.

He thought of all the people he had hurt, and all the people who had hurt him.

And he thought of all the things he wished he could change.

It was a brief, fleeting moment of regret. A fleeting moment of something else, too.

Something like peace.

Like an acceptance of sorts.

'This ain't so bad...'

It was as if he had been waiting for this day all his life. 

A day where he'd finally be able to let it all go. All the rage, all the misery, all the sorrow. All the resentment.

At long last, he finally felt free.