Bar Hopping

He stumbled along the gravel path, sometimes faltering onto grass, the dog running carelessly beside him. The grass was soft, and cool, fresh with dew that was just waking up on the blades of grass. The park smelled really strongly of pine today. Or maybe it was just him. Probably both. It was refreshing, though. The trees were swaying. No, that was him. Everything around him was dizzy. He spotted a bench a few steps away, and almost fell on it, as he made his way towards it. The trees were dark and menacing. He put his head in his hand, and gasped in a few breaths. Then he leaned back, and stared at the sky. It was pretty today. Soft warm colors, as if the sun was stretching, slowly waking up, instead of abruptly lighting the sky as it usually did. Strange: the sun usually wasn’t out for at least another hour and a half.

The dog sprinted ahead, tail wagging wildly. She stopped and panted for a few seconds, tongue lolling about happily, and then sprinted back towards him, skidding on the grass, and then back again. 

He stumbled, she was unaware. Trusted him enough to make his own decisions. 

The air smelled sweet. His head was spinning. Was it exhaustion, or the substance, or the food? Probably all of the above.

It had been a good night. He would smile but for the earthquake inside his head. He gripped his head, everything was spinning. Had it been a good night? The thought of smiling faltered, as he wondered. He didn’t remember all that much. Bright lights, dancing. Loud music.

The dog was now prancing about with a stick she found on the ground, tail high as if hung by a hook, wagging beautifically.

It was a good night, he smelled as he thought of how they had gone out. He had met them all. And her friends for the first time. He was silent at the start. He had already been drunk. But then, he got more comfortable, and more in need of more liquid, he began to talk. Then they drank. He didn’t feel it. But then it had hit like a thundering train. Oh and it had tasted fucking goddamed awful.

She sprinted with the stick in her mouth and lost it along the way, skidding to a stop, and without fully stopping turning around, her head turned around, her paws flailing, digging into the ground, skidding, curling, her nose on the ground, trying to find the stick in this darkness.

Then he just did not stop talking. They went from one bar to another, and when they were all consumed by the alcohol, they found themselves at a Taco Bell, sitting in the bright lights, humming to the soothing music.

She lost the stick. She sniffed around, disinterested in looking for it. What was she sniffing for.

They had wanted to go back home, he had wanted to drink more.

He stumbled, still drunk, still exhausted, eyes drooping, heavy, brain slowly running out of fumes with which to send commands to his body, with which to keep everything up and running. 

He had gone to a bar. That’s when it had started. Had it been a good night? No. He dropped to the ground in shock, eyes burning with unshed tears as the memories came flooding in. That’s when it had started. The man had walked in brandishing the weapon, and had started shooting.

The dog pranced around.