Misery and its finer companions plague the men of the land.
It's a blanket, enveloping them all, deserving or not.
His throat is dry, far dryer than he'd like, so he saunters on into a small locale, tucked away from the gaze of better minded men, praying for indulgence.
It's a filthy place, the bartender averse to sweeping, but it feels like home nowadays.
The aging man bellies up to the bar, grunting as he takes his seat, the poorly cut wood of the stool digging into him. Slouching over, elbows on the bar, the weary soul needs only to nod at the bartender before being served his first drink of many to come. He's been in the bar so often that he's earned the honor of never having to speak a syllable to anyone, letting him imbibe in blissful wordlessness.
Haunted. The souls of the damned slipping in and out of his mind, reminding him of what he's done.
He seeks out solitude, communing with them, awash in their horror as he soaks in their agony.
It hides behind a mask of apathy, but there is something all too inhuman about his insatiable lust for atrocity.
As he takes a slow first sip, savoring the feeling of the cool glass on his lips as the alcohol flows over his tongue and down his throat, he closes his eyes. Grinning to himself as the world around him seems to soften.
They're screaming.
Wishing to remain uninterrupted in his meditation, he decides to put his full payment on the counter, signaling the bartender to keep him adequately sated. Leaning slightly, he procures…