Long days at the bistro were difficult. Pair it with incompetent staff, unruly and obnoxious customers and you have a normal day for Vincent. He had always been taught to manage no matter how stressed or overwhelmed he was. Before, he had been broken then rebuilt as a "better man" if he didn't manage well. So much for that. It only served to make him depressed in adulthood. Oh, and homosexual too, can't forget that.

Vincent hadn't really ever ingested alcohol until after he had finally gotten La Gueule de Saturne on the map. For once in his dreary existence, Vincent felt...calm when he had downed that bottle of wine. As much as it displeased him, his subconscious had labeled such liquid as a means to a safe place from them on, thus marking the beginning of the end for his mental health.

Today had been no different than any other miserable, soul crushing day, save for a few extra shitty events. Naturally, Vincent had gravitated to the only way he knew how to cope.

Leaned back in the sleek black chair in his office, Vincent remained staring blankly up at the ceiling, the stinging cuts on his arms a faraway, numb feeling. The wine glass on the desk was empty, as he had simply opted to take the venom straight from the barrel. The wine glass, mostly empty, was tipped over on the desk, the neck of it broken off. There was a pool of the red alcohol around the bottle, seemingly have spilled. The same could be said for Vincent. He was broken, his scarlet blood staining his crisp white chefs jacket, leaving stains of the red droplets trailing down the fabric, creating small puddles under the office chair. His slender, pale forearms were littered with bright red cuts, all angles, crossing over one another, all trying to gift exquisite pain. In a red haze, her mind foggy and body aching, Vincent asked himself if he had locked the door, coming to the conclusion that yes, had had. Probably. But it didn't matter, all of the employees were supposed to have left. If they hadn't, he would simply make them next week's main dish.