2010.

It's been a shitty night with a shitty show, a shitty crowd, and shitty lighting.

Squeezing his fingers around his whiskey bottle, Wednesday sighs deeply and runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. As he leans against the couch, his black hair splays out on the white cushions like a frustrated ink blot.

He doesn't like how he gets when he's drunk. Vision blurry, mind fogged, breathing slowed—he can barely walk or see straight.

"Damn," he mutters, holding his head in his hands as he rubs his weary eyes in an attempt to focus them.

It's much too loud in his mind right now.