I just reread this. All of these different people with their different lives since Alyssa died seem completely unrelated and this story seems scattered. Don't worry; it'll come together eventually. After I write about three more people. Heh.
And I'm not sure why they censored that word in Terrence's POV. It's just a synonym for loading his gun… Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Please read -Magical_Rani4-'s AMAZING story, Tale of a Lost Flame. Even though it says it's a one-shot, she decided to turn it into a story. Thanks! And don't worry, I'm writing the update right now. ^.^
This update is pretty crappy. I have no idea how to describe being drunk. ~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~ ~James (Mr. Wolfon/Dad)~ "Another round?" I look up at the bartender, Robyn. Her tight fuchsia tube top and barely-there miniskirt is enough to make any drunk man drool, not to mention her platinum blonde hair piled seductively on top of her head. It's a clever way to trick men into buying too many drinks. But it doesn't work on me. I drink for a different reason. But I can't remember what it is anymore. I can't remember anything; I've drunk my whole life away. I can't even remember how long I've been in here, living off the cheap bar food and beer. "Ye-" I drunkenly start to answer, dizzily looking around. A violet-eyed woman catches my eye at one of the tables. She starts to slowly walk towards me, her wavy auburn locks swinging with every step. A strand of raven hair falls in my face as I stare at her, entranced. My hair seems familiar. Almost as if I've seen the exact same color on someone else. Someone close to me. But I can't quite place it. "James," the woman snaps once she reaches me. "What are you doing in this dump? And why are you drunk? Don't you dare order any more beer!" I recoil from her severe tone, looking at her in shock. "I'm sorry, James," she continues, gentler now. "It's just… I'm worried about you. I'm worried about your health." "Okay, I won't drink any more," I slur. "Uh… what?" "Huh?" I snap out of my reverie. The woman is still at the back. She was never talking to me. Robyn is staring at me impatiently. "Well? Do you want more or not?" "Er… no thanks," I reply, my answer almost unintelligible with drunkenness. Confusedly, I look toward the woman again. Why did I just refuse more? The answer seems to be at the back of my head, a nagging sensation telling me there's something I should know. But I can't place it. I clumsily hop off the stool and stagger towards the exit of the bar. The ground seems to be swaying, rolling like the waves of the ocean. It makes me fall many times, but I keep going, pushing open the wooden door and stumbling into an alleyway. ~<>~<>~ Groggily, I wake up. Where am I? What am I doing in this filthy alley? And why is someone hitting my head? Quickly, I realize it's not a person inflicting this piercing pain in my skull. It's a headache. The worst hangover of all time. I look down at myself and gasp in shock. My shirt is stained with beer, ketchup, and crimson splotches that look suspiciously like blood. My jeans are torn. My shoes are gone. Blearily, I rub my eyes as the events gradually come back to me. December 14. The fateful day. When we got the letter from Alyssa. My beloved daughter, the girl I would gladly die for. December 15. Mourning, the whole day. Weeping the loss of the person who made every day brighter. December 16. Finn started to leave the house. We barely noticed, passing it off as sadness for his sister. December 17. Finn was gone the whole day. December 18. Ashley left. I didn't even care. I didn't care my wife was leaving without a word. December 19. Both Ashley and Finn were still gone. I sat on the couch the whole day. December 20. Finn was still gone from our home. Ashley came back, but by then I was too depressed to even talk to her. I left for the bar. And then I lived in the bar. I slept in it. Ate in it. Drank in it. I recall a few hazy memories of getting into fights. Kicking, scratching, punching. Getting both of my shoes pulled off. But how long ago was that? How long have I been in the bar? I look to my left. An iPhone is lying on the ground, its screen cracked and shattered. The black rubber case has small notches cut out on the side. It looks like my case. I even have the same habit of scratching notches in the side with my thumbnail when I'm nervous. "Wait a minute," I realize. "That's mine." Hastily, I crawl over and snatch it, turning the phone on. But I immediately drop it again once I see the date. April 14. It's been four months exactly since she died. ~<>~<>~ "Hello?" I call cautiously, opening the door to my house. A thick layer of dust coats every available surface. I groan, sinking to the floor in despair. My family is gone. My son. My wife. My daughter. "Ashley and Finn, I'll find you," I whisper. "I won't stop until I find you." ~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~
I think it's called a barista. I don't know. ᎡᎾᏌᏁᎠ ᎾᎱ ᎪᏢᏢᏝᎪᏌᎦᏋ!!!!! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~