Whiskey and Blood

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The bar smelled of stale beer and desperation, the kind of place where lost souls gathered like moths to a flame. Dim lights flickered, casting shadows that danced against the wood-paneled walls. The jukebox in the corner wheezed out a tune nobody really listened to, and the bartender, a broad-shouldered man with a grizzled beard, slid another shot my way without asking.

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“For the pain,” he muttered, not even looking at me. “Another one of the same.”

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I nodded, fingers curling around the glass, feeling its cold weight in my palm. The whiskey burned its way down my throat, but it wasn’t enough. It never was. Nothing could fill the gaping wound left behind when she walked away, when her dark eyes became nothing more than ghosts in my memory.

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Outside, the rain slashed against the window, the sound whispering to me like her voice used to. Don’t go. Stay. But she was gone, and the echoes of her words only made the nights longer. The bartender’s gaze lingered on me for a moment, as if he recognized a man circling the drain, but he said nothing. Maybe he knew there was nothing left to save.

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3 AM. The clock on my nightstand ticked with a hollow, rhythmic sound, marking another sleepless night. The rain hadn’t stopped, and neither had the dreams. They came like they always did—visions of her walking away, of me reaching out, of her slipping through my fingers like mist.

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I sat up, rubbing my face, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle deep into my bones. The half-empty whiskey bottle glared at me from the bedside table. I reached for it, but my fingers brushed something else—an old photograph, its edges worn from too much handling. Her face stared back at me, frozen in time, a cruel reminder of everything I had lost.

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A shuddering breath left my lips. I couldn’t do this anymore.

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I stumbled to my feet, the room swaying around me. The apartment walls seemed to close in, suffocating, pressing. I fumbled for my jacket, my fingers brushing against cold metal. The gun was still there, heavy in my pocket. I had carried it for weeks, the weight both a comfort and a curse.

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The bar was still open when I returned, though the crowd had thinned. The bartender glanced up as I walked in, eyes narrowing slightly. Maybe he saw something different in my face. Maybe he saw the end coming.

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“Another?” he asked, voice wary.

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I nodded, dropping onto the stool. He poured without a word, watching as I lifted the glass to my lips. The whiskey was warm, smooth, but it no longer burned. I was beyond feeling anything.

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The neon lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere behind me, someone laughed, the sound sharp and cruel. I stared at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. My eyes were hollow, my skin sallow. A man undone.

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The memories swelled again. The verbal fights, the apologies, the promises made and broken. Her final goodbye, the way her voice cracked, the way she wouldn’t even look into my eyes anymore.

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And then, the last time I saw her.

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The police had called it an accident. A rainy night, a slippery road, a curve taken too fast. But I knew better. She had been running from something. From me. From us. From everything for a long time.

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And now, there was nothing left. Only whiskey. And blood.

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I barely registered the bartender’s voice.

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“You good, man?”

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I forced a smile, though it felt foreign on my lips.

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“Yeah,” I lied. “One more for the road.”

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He hesitated, but eventually poured it. I downed the shot in one swallow, letting the warmth settle. Letting the decision solidify.

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The gun was still in my pocket. The night was still young.

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And her ghost is waiting.

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-Mark Gammill

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Whiskey and Blood

 

Verse 1

Chasing over and over the same broken dreams

staring at an empty glass more and more it seems

trying hard to lose the pictures of you in my head

though I try I still see your dark eyes instead.

 

Verse 2

Bartender orders another shot for the pain

for you he says another one of the same

neon glowing, memories flowing

bleeding far into the past

over and over, hardly ever sober

how much longer will this last.

 

Chorus

Only whiskey and blood

no more waiting for your worthless love

as hopeless as one left drowning in a flood

with no chance for us, only whiskey and blood.

 

Verse 3

3 am, sleepless night again

hearing your soft voice in the rain

reoccurring dreams

the long and endless scenes

of losing you again.

 

Verse 4

In a quiet room I cannot move

the ghost of your face at the end

no matter how hard I tried

your words goodbye

rang over and over again

 

Verse 5

In a pool of red

on the floor near the bed

an old photograph of you

how sad it is to have come to this

what else was I to do.

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- Mark Gammill