It wasn't common knowledge, but tucked away in Westhill Gardens was a bit of a hole in the wall bar where patrons could find a little peace and quiet to go along with their booze. Or, at least, the lessened chance of a bar fight breaking out between people too hopped up on booze, so that was always a plus in Elliott's book. Thus why he could be found settled into a little corner booth that evening with his drink of choice settled in front of him. He'd chosen something new called 'The Ripper'; a hard liquor concoction that included a rather powerful mixture of whiskey, ouzo, and a random type of citrus juice.
He imagined he needed it as he sat and stared down at his recently-pushed-up shirt sleeves, and then beyond to the scars that lay on his skin. It was almost fifteen years to the day that he'd left them there but the events that led to it still felt like they'd happened only the day before. Perhaps he'd never be quite over the damage he'd caused to his family, and maybe he'd never be able to look his mother in the eye without feeling like a failure of a son.
Maybe he'd die feeling the same guilt he felt when he was sixteen.
"The least I deserve," he muttered to himself, pulling his sleeves down roughly and grabbing for his drink to take a rather healthy swig of it. An action he immediately regretted when the taste made him grimace. Perhaps considering his own death just moments before had been a mistake too, because the drink would surely do him in. A glance to the bartender showed that he was being watched for entertainment if the portly man's laughter was anything to go by.
"Fairly convinced a drink that tastes this bad should be illegal, y'know," Elliott stated, only to get another belly laugh in response.
"You should try the Armageddon," he offered with a smirk, to which Elliott pulled another face. Maybe not, if 'The Ripper' was anything to go by. Hoping nobody else had been watching him, he chanced a quick glance around at the rest of the bar and prayed his luck wasn't entirely terrible.