He had gone walking for a while; probably had walked several miles, in fact. He had played the flute (well, attempted to play it, and poorly at that), and that still didn't help. He had gone fishing, but it soon lost it's appeal. It seemed no matter what he did, he couldn't clear these thoughts from his mind. "T' hell wi' it," he thought. "There's always th' bottle...." As he drank, he still had the thoughts...the thoughts which he had fought so long and so desperately to ignore....
He kept drinking.
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He had already gone through a bottle of mead, and was now putting forth quite an effort to empty a bottle of beer. Still, the thoughts came, but the alcohol was starting to work on him; he began muttering to no-one but himself.
"Wha' does it matter, eh? Still wouldn' work; yer a bastard, an' she deserves better.... An' 'ere's th' real kicker; yeh know it, don' yeh? Pretty sorry if yer 'avin' these thoughts, knowin' wha' yeh know, don' yeh think?"
He shakes his head, realizing, finally, that he was thinking aloud. He laughs, a growling, grating sound coming from his throat. "Yeh'd better quit tha' shite, else people'll start thinkin' yeh've lost it, lad...." He shakes his head, then turns the mug up, emptying it in one gulp. He feels the blissful numbness make it's way through his body; he can only hope it will make it's way to his mind as quickly.....
"Wha' does it matter, eh? Still wouldn' work; yer a bastard, an' she deserves better.... An' 'ere's th' real kicker; yeh know it, don' yeh? Pretty sorry if yer 'avin' these thoughts, knowin' wha' yeh know, don' yeh think?"
He shakes his head, realizing, finally, that he was thinking aloud. He laughs, a growling, grating sound coming from his throat. "Yeh'd better quit tha' shite, else people'll start thinkin' yeh've lost it, lad...." He shakes his head, then turns the mug up, emptying it in one gulp. He feels the blissful numbness make it's way through his body; he can only hope it will make it's way to his mind as quickly.....
He layed back agains the cold stone wall, and eventually dozed off. Though asleep, his thoughts still plagued him; not even the booze could chase them away, it seemed. He slept fitfully, occasionally crying out against the liquor-fueled phantasms in his dreams. He saw faces of those close to him, distorted in hideous, hateful expressions of ridicule...he saw the flesh melting off his bones from a fire that would not go out, no matter how hard he tried to extinguish it...he saw a mine, caving in on him as he worked, trapping him inside for the rest of his natural life. He saw many things of this nature...he saw nothing to bring him peace. Still, he slept on, tossing about, moaning, just passing time until he woke again, passing time until he had to conciously deal with these thoughts. Despite the horrific nature of his nightmares, if given the choice, he would undoubtedly choose them over what plagued his mind in the waking world.