pitythetrumper

It was pouring and he was drunk. Those were the only two thoughts he could keep in his head. No, three things. Pouring, drunk, and the fact that he fucking loathed Sergievsky. How Florence could have put up with him at all was something he didn't want to think about. It was lucky for him that he couldn't think. All he knew was his next destination was home, or at least what passed for home.

Nothing looked right, though. That cluster of trees. Wasn't it supposed to be over there? Or was he supposed to walk through them? Hell. He should have brought a drink back with him.

He closed his eyes, leaned back against a tree, and closed his eyes. He'd just stay for a little while. A few minutes.