caffeinewitchcraft:

writing-prompt-s:

You have this… friend. Really nice bloke, buys you a beer when you’re feeling down, kills the people who’ve wronged you, etc. You don’t actually know his name though.

You watch him make his way through the crowded bar, clapping seemingly random people on the back and shaking his head at others. One woman leans forward and plants an enthusiastic kiss on his mouth. He responds by spinning her to the pub’s music and releasing her with a good-natured smile.

You wonder if she knows his name.

The pint in your hand is cold and exactly what you need right now. You can’t get the image of your husband’s body lying broken on the ground out of your head. You think you should be angry or scared or sad, at the least, about his death, but all you can drudge up is a mild sense of relief.

You drink half the pint in one go and the bartender looks a little more approving of you. You’ve proven that you’re not just a well-dressed woman in her mid-thirties who’s out of her depth in this dive bar. You’re a well-dress woman in her mid-thirties who’s out of her depth in this dive bar who can drink. That makes all the difference.

You actually don’t remember when you and he became friends. You didn’t know him in high school which is where you met your husband. Ex-husband. You didn’t meet him in college either, you would remember if anyone had died then. Surely you would have?

You are no longer sure. You don’t even know his name.

You see him on the other side of the bar, talking lowly to a rough looking group in the corner. They all seem friendly, nearly worshipful, of your friend. He’s clearly asking them for something, a favor maybe, and no one seems to be denying him.  They look happy, glowing under his regard. 

You know the feeling. 

When he comes back, he’s smiling comfortingly. “My friends will take care of the body. I know that you can’t afford the police involvement right now, not with Senator Hudson’s reelection so close.”

Somehow my boss’ seat at the table is the last thing on my mind, you almost say. But you don’t because, as usual, he’s right. Police involvement right now would be disastrous and would make it so that you never worked on the Hill again.

“You’re always looking out for me,” you say, looking down into your almost empty pint. You are actually no longer sure that that’s true.  In fact, the more you think about it, the more sure you are that it’s not true.

He pauses for a moment, head cocking. “I want to look out for you. I’m happy to do it. I think there’s something else on your mind, though. Wanna talk about it?”

There is a chill working its way up your spine. it tells you that your…friend must not know that you have doubts about his ‘looking out for you.’

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