Who: Zane, Penny, and Open When: Day 5, 11:13pm Where: Laundry Room
He watched the red liquid drip onto the white porcelain, speckles and rivulets here and there that ran together, dancing along the shining, metallic pieces of glass like a stream navigating rocks. He envied its meeting with the water, its quick and painless sweep down the drain. Zane's eyes raised to meet his own reflection, fissures and missing pieces across the glass obscuring his face. He scowled and pushed off the sink, ignoring the sharp pain in the split knuckles of his left hand. Physical pain was an almost welcome feeling and distraction, though not as welcome as being numb.
Zane left his room and made his way down to the bar, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. This was how he planned to get swept away, to drown; to stop feeling the angry, tearing sensation in his chest. He turned about the bar, the desire to make it stop almost enough for him to drop down on the floor right there and pull the top off the bottle. But, no, it felt a little too public, even this late at night and with less than twenty other people in the hotel. Hell, maybe less than twenty other people in all of Detroit. He needed to get back to his own room but first decided he needed to change his shirt, and he none clean there. He'd worn the blood stained cloth he had on currently around all day, his own personal burden.
The laundry room was empty and had a dark feeling to it from being underground, even with the lights on. Zane unzipped his hoodie, exposing the now dried blood on his shirt, and went to the table filled with folded clothes. His eyes swept the piles but didn't focus on anything. So he opened the bottle, swallowing down the first mouthful of burning liquid, and then filled his two shot glasses. The trick was to drink fast.