Desmond’s hand lowered from his face, the dull throb in his temples remained. He wasn’t sure if it was the whiskey or the endless nights of restless sleep that made his head pound, but either way, it felt like the weight of the world was pressing against his skull. His eyes flicked to the shelves behind him, rows of bottles stacked, some bottles were familiar, some new. He used to know the origin of every drink, every label, every taste, but now he could hardly read the labels.

The bar was crowded tonight, as it often was on weekends. A handful of people spilled into the booths, the patrons, drunk and boisterous, talked over each other, laughing too hard, shouting too much. The faces all blurred into one in his mind. He didn’t know any of them. Didn’t need to. The jukebox played a steady stream of rock, the kind of music that vibrated in his bones, even if he didn’t care much for it. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the hum of the wires almost in sync with the beat. It was too much, too overwhelming.

He wiped a glass clean, running the rag over the surface in slow, deliberate circles. His fingers ached from the simple motion, but it gave him something to focus on. He didn’t even look up as he reached for the whiskey bottle—a low, squat thing with a worn label. His fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, and poured a heavy measure into the glass he had been polishing. He set the bottle down with a quiet thud, his eyes drifted to the counter as he grabbed a single paracetamol from the pack tucked under the bar. Desmond looked up momentarily before placing the white pill into his mouth, gulping it down thickly with the alcohol he had poured himself.