Untitled Still Life

by Swellison

Drink, swear, scars - for the Pick 3 challenge for Fic Fifty Plus

Chris Larabee strode rapidly down the boardwalk, his spurs frequently clanking against the uneven planks, like a stalker, relentlessly dogging his steps. He reached the saloon, pushing the batwing doors open, one hand on top of each door. He paused, framed between the two doors, his slender silhouette casting a silent shadow in the late morning sun. Dressed in his customary black jeans, shirt and duster, face and mouth closed, he exuded menace. His wary gaze searched out the saloon's occupants: a few farmers and cowhands, the barkeep and a couple of saloon girls were the only patrons at this time of day. None of his fellow peacekeepers were present. And dammit, nobody worth his time or even thinking of causing trouble, either.

Chris walked through the doors, letting them swing closed behind him. He went straight to the bar, and before the barkeep could greet him, said, "Whiskey. One glass, two bottles."

After the bartender set the requested items on the bar, Larabee tossed down his payment. He grabbed the two bottles by the neck in one hand, and the shot glass in the other. He avoided the Seven's regular table, and settled in another corner table, closest to the bar. He poured a drink and gulped it down, then immediately downed another and a third, before setting the glass down. "Shit."

Larabee poured another drink and stared at it, but he wasn't seeing the glass or the table. He was back in Mary's office, perusing the paper's detailed description of yesterday's attempted bank robbery, and how the peacekeepers had thwarted it. He folded the paper and dropped it on Mary's desk, reading the date in passing. Oh shit, Sarah's birthday. Next thing he knew, he was standing in the saloon's doorway, knowing he needed whiskey, NOW. He guzzled down the fourth shot, trying to drown out his thinking with drinking. Chris knew it would take a hell of a lot more than four shots to do that. The three-and-a-half-year-old scars on his heart bled as if they were brand new. His mind's eye saw the burnt-out shell of his ranch, and the two blanketed forms on the ground in front of the porch. Mechanically, he poured and downed another drink; he'd have to open the second bottle before too long. It was gonna be a damned long day.

The End