I unscrew the cap from the bottle of Jack Daniels and take a nice, hearty gulp. It burns goin’ down, but I don't mind much. Never do, really. I learned a long time ago that the old sayin’ “no pain no gain” really does hold water. Especially with the way my life's been.

I turn around on the stool my ass rests on and glance about the remains of this once “fine establishment.” Although “shithole” would probably be a more accurate term to describe it. It was quiet as a mouse, and not a creature was stirrin’—or breathin’ for that matter.

Settin’ down the bottle on the counter, I pull out a cigar from my tattered leather jacket. Bastards shot me up real good, filled it with holes. That's not why I killed ‘em, but it sure as shit didn't score any points in my favor. I take out a cigar cutter, and used it to cut off the end of the stogie. I pull out a wood match and spark it off my chin, holding the flame over the end of the cigar. I puff several times to get it goin’.

Bodies are scattered around the bar. About a dozen or so. The walls painted red with blood. I’m covered with it myself, but I don't care. You'd be surprised how easily it washes off your hands when you've been doin’ this for as long as I have.

This ain't the kinda thing I'm supposed to be doin’ these days. Usually, what prevents me from killin’ is a pacifist creed that I don't fully subscribe to. I do my best, I try, really, I do. But sometimes, there are some folks you run across who just have it comin'. My old instructors never really grasped that, and I admire that kinda idealism. It's just not in my nature, though. Or at least it ain't no more.

I hold the cigar between two fingers while I tip back the bottle. The rest of the bourbon flowed down my throat. A whole fifth of Jack and I didn't even have a buzz goin'.

Typical.

I set the bottle back down on the counter and contemplate grabbing another. I'm sure the bartender had another one somewhere. If not, there’s a selection of other brands I could choose from. I spied a fifth of Jim Beam-not as smooth as the Jack, but what do I care?

With the cigar gripped between my teeth, I hop over the counter and take the Beam. It'd be nice to have somethin' for the road. Now I don't condone drunk drivin', but then again, I'm not one t' get drunk all that easily. Two fifths of whiskey and I mightmightbe at the legal limit. I hold the bottle in my hands. Stepping over the bartender's lifeless body. Once I get to the door, I take another look around the bar.

Guess this is how it always ends.

Your name is Brenda McKenzie. You work double-shifts at Winkie's Diner, and you have been doing this for quite some time. Your entire life took a turn for the worse when you became pregnant at the age of sixteen. Now, you are thirty-two years old and working hard trying to support yourself as well as your sixteen-year-old daughter.

The bell rings, indicating that someone has just entered. You look over and see him take a seat towards the back corner of the diner. He might be just shy of six feet tall. He’s wearing a pair of weathered jeans, a beat-up leather jacket and a button-down shirt in need of some bleach. His face is rough with a permanent five o’clock shadow and his dark hair is a bit straggly, hanging in his face. You walk over to his table as you would normally approach any customer.

“Good morning,” you say with that bit of cheerful gusto you've perfected over the years of waitressing.

“Coffee. Black.”

His voice is gruff, like brick scraping against brick. He doesn't even look up at you, his eyes obscured by those unkempt strands of hair. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a cigar. Striking a wooden match against the table, he lights it and begins to puff.

“Anything else?”

He pulls the cigar from his mouth and glances up at you. His dark brown eyes catch your green ones and you feel a mixture of fear and excitement race through your body.

“Just coffee.”

“Sure, comin’ right up.”

You slide the order pad and pen into the pocket on your apron and make your way behind the counter. As you pour the coffee, you can’t help but feel your eyes drawn back to him. There's a... calm about him, but it doesn't seem natural. It seems forced, as if he's holding back. He pays you no mind, but you sense he can feel your eyes on him. Instead, he just puffs on his cigar and looks out the window of the diner. You bring the coffee to him and set it down in front of him.

“You sure you don't want anything else?”

“Keep it comin’,” is the reply.

“No breakfast?”

“No.”

“C’mon, it’s the most important meal of the da—“

His sideways glance up at you kills your sentence before the final word leaves your mouth. You take the hint and leave him to his thoughts. You move through the restaurant and collect the bill from the customer who just left. After putting the money in the register, you take your tip and slide it into your apron.

While waiting for either the strange man to finish his coffee or someone else to walk in, your thoughts begin to drift. You think of your daughter and the fights the two of you have been having as of late. Her grades have been falling and she has been spending too much time with her new boyfriend. She's making mistakes, some of the same ones you made when you were her age, and you want to spare her from that kind of life. You want her to go to college, to make something of herself.

The clang of the doorbell brings you out of your thoughts and through the glass, you see the man leaving. You walk over to the table. The remains of the cigar smolder in the ashtray, the cup is drained and a five-dollar bill rests on the table. The coffee was only a buck fifty.

“How's that for a nice way to start the day?”

* * *

You take a deep breath as you press down on the plunger. Slowly, the liquid flows through the needle into your body. You feel your whole body relax as the blood of the gods flows through your veins. Your heart rate slows and your pupils constrict as a river flows through you. You find yourself overcome by a wave of euphoria.

With a sigh, you fall limp into his arms. It is here that you feel safe. It is here that you wish you could never leave from. You glance up at him and see his head tilted back, resting against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips. You curl up into a little ball beside him on the bed.

Ryan.

He's what pop songs call your everything. You lay your head on his bare chest and his hand begins to absently stroke your jet-black hair. You think to yourself, this is what Heaven must be like. Heaven is an eternity of laying beside the man you love in a perfect, drug-induced high.

The sound of a door opening suddenly jolts you out of your stupor. You feel Ryan move and you look up at him to see him putting out the cigarette in the ashtray beside your bed.

"Alyssa, I'm home."

No... not so soon... not now...

Ryan is already acting on this and takes the needle from you. He quickly moves off the bed and begins digging through the clothes on the floor. Each footstep upon the hardwood floors is a harbinger of the eventual confrontation you know is coming. You want to avoid it if possible, but you know there is no getting away from it.

The footsteps stop and the door opens. The light from the hallway frames the body of your mother, Brenda McKenzie. She sees the smoldering cigarette in the ashtray, she sees Ryan pulling his pants on and she sees her sixteen-year-old daughter laying naked beneath the sheets.

"What the hell is going on?!"

"...I was just leaving," says Ryan. He buttons his jeans and grabs his shirt from the floor. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor as he moves past Brenda and out of the room. A gap of a few moments and then you hear the door open and close. Brenda hits the light switch, and you cover your eyes to shield them from the sudden intrusion of brightness.

"You're home early..." you mutter. Brenda walks over to the nightstand and picks up the smoldering cigarette.

"You're smoking now?"

"No, it was Ryan’s."

"And that makes it okay?"

"I was jus' answerin' you..."

"And I see you guys are sleeping together now."

"I love him..."

"You've only been seeing him for a month!"

"So?"

She doesn't understand, you think. How could she understand? She doesn't know what it's like to be young and in love. She doesn't understand that love can strike at any time, at any age. It doesn't matter if you're only sixteen and Ryan’s nineteen. It doesn't matter that you've only been seeing him for a month.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothin'..."

"Look at me."

"I'm fine."

Brenda looks down and you know she's staring at the marks on your arm. You know she sees the tourniquet. It's all too much for you, you just want Ryan back. You just want to lie beside him again.

"You're not fine. You think I don't see what's going on?"

"So?"

"Don't you have anything more to say for yourself?"

"I'm jus' tryin' t' have a good time, that's all."

"A good time equals shooting up?"

"You don't unnerstand..."

"I understand more than you think," she says. You can hear her sigh, but you're not even looking at her anymore. You just lay your head down on the bed and close your eyes, hoping for her to leave soon. "I work around the clock to support you and this is the thanks I get?"

"Jus' leave me be."

"Fine," she says. "I can’t talk to you when you're like this anyway. We're going to discuss this in the morning. And tomorrow, we're going to do something about that boyfriend of your’s. I don't want you dating no junkies."

"He's not a junkie!"

"Goodnight, Alyssa."

The light mercifully goes off and the door slams. You roll over in bed, tossing and turning. Then it comes.

tap

tap

tap

Very light, you have to strain to hear it. But it's there. Tap, tap, tap. You sit up in bed and clutch the sheet close to your chest. You move towards the window and through the glass, you can see him standing outside on the lawn. He motions for you to come down.

You move over to your door and peek outside it. The light in your mother's room has just turned off. You move back to the window and signal for him to wait one minute. You drop the sheet and pull on a pair of pants and a t-shirt. You slowly step outside your room, checking again to see that the light is off. Carefully, you sneak towards the front door. Each movement you make is slow and methodical, yet it still sounds as if you are making enough noise to wake the dead.

Once the door to the apartment you share with your mother is closed, you run down the stairs and out the lobby entrance. Ryan is waiting there for you and you jump into his arms. His mouth finds yours and the kiss you two share fills you with a renewed sense of energy and hope.

"She wants me to stop seeing you."

"I won't let that happen," he says. "I want you to come away with me."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

You smile and kiss him again, pressing your body against his. It's like something out of a fairy tale-your prince charming has come to take you away from your old life.

So romantic.

* * *

One month.

That's how long it's been since your daughter went missing. The morning after the two of you had your fight, you saw she was gone and you called the police and filed a missing persons report. You told them about her boyfriend, Ryan. They said they would look into it.

You've been calling the police station every day over the past month, but still no response from them. The detective assigned to the case has stopped returning your calls. If only you had the money to afford a private investigator, but that's not an option.

You cry yourself to sleep every night. Whenever the phone rings, you pray to hear Alyssa's voice on the other end. Whenever you hear a creak in the apartment, you run to see if she's come home. But she never calls, she never comes home. No letters, either.

You've lost her and you feel responsible for driving her off.

Every morning, your eyes are red from the crying. Your boss has sympathized so far with your situation, but you fear that he's going to follow you. You've been making mistakes you don't usually make.

The bell rings.

He walks in and sits in his usual booth. Ever since the first time you saw him, he's been in here at least once or twice a week. He just sits there, smokes his cigar and drinks his coffee. Always pays with a five-dollar bill. Occasionally, he'll order a slice of pie or a plate of bacon or sausage.

You walk over to him with your notepad.

"Let me guess, black coffee, right?"

"That's right," he replies in that gruff voice.

"Sure, comin' right up."

Twenty minutes later and you've refilled his cup twice. He's still sitting there, puffing on that big, fat stogie. He stares out the window of the diner, seemingly oblivious to everything in the world around him. You walk back over to him and set the check down on the table.

"Just pay whenever you're ready," you tell him. "Holler if you want a refill."

You turn to walk away, but suddenly he grabs your wrist.

"Wait."

Your body is paralyzed with fear. You don't know what to do next. His hands are even rougher than his voice. Chapped, calloused skin. He looks up at you with those intense, dark eyes. You breathe deep, unsure of what to do. Slowly, you look down at him and clear your throat.

"D-did you want to order somethin' else?"

He releases your hand and leans back in the booth. The tip of his cigar glows and he pulls it free from his lips. The smoke slowly curls out in a seemingly endless stream from his mouth. With the cigar in hand, he motions to the other side of the booth.

"Sit."

"I... I can’t, I've got work t-"

"Why've you been cryin'?"

"What?"

"After the first time I came in here, every time I see you, it looks like you've been cryin'."

"Oh no, it's nothing, I just..."

"Just answer the question."

His bluntness borders on insulting, and you're not quite sure how to react to it at first. Part of you says to tell him that it's nothing that concerns him, that he should just mind his own business. But despite that, you find yourself telling him the entire story of Alyssa and her boyfriend. You tell him about the last time you saw her, you tell him about how she went missing. You tell him about the police and how they haven't helped at all. You tell this scary-looking stranger your entire life story and you don't even know why.

"What's this boy's name?"

"Ryan," you say. "Ryan... Cunningham I think?"

He nods and puts out his cigar in the ashtray. He stands from the table and sets a ten-dollar bill down this time. You look at it in confusion and then back at him. He can see the confusion on your face and it makes him smile.

“Wh-what are you gonna do?” you ask.

"I'm gonna find your daughter."

The confusion turns to shock and for a moment, you feel like you're living in a dream state. You wonder if this is real or if you're just imagining it all. You open your mouth, but no sound comes forth. Even if it did, do you even know what you were going to say? He walks away from the table, and once he opens the door, you suddenly find your voice again.

"Wait, what's your name?"

He looks back at you and replies with, “It’s Riker. Riker Stone.”