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𝙱𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎

Some people go to church when their world falls apart. I go where the neon flickers, the music's too loud to think, and no one asks questions unless you're ordering a double. Strip clubs are my confessional. I sit in the shadows with whiskey in hand, watching strangers play kings for the price of a private dance. It's all clean, transactional. No 'how've you been?' Just legs, smoke, and honest lies. You'd be surprised how safe fake can feel when everything else in your life is real and falling apart.

Most nights, I forget what I'm running from - until my phone reminds me - old messages, half-read threads I still scroll like they might change if I just look at them long enough. I memorized the moment everything changed, even if I couldn't admit it out loud. But I'd rather watch strangers strip than strip myself bare again for someone who never looked back.

I wasn't looking for trouble. I didn't plan to hit anyone that night. That wasn't the goal. But the world's funny like that - give it a little blood and it gives you back something that feels like clarity. Two drunk fucks decided a woman's fear was entertainment, and before I knew it, I was cracking one across the jaw and taking a punch straight to the mouth. Blood tastes like metal and memory, but pain's better than silence. At least it proves you're still made of something.

The funny thing is, I didn't feel bad about it. Not even close. I needed it. The ache in my hand. It reminded me I was still here. Still made of flesh and bone and not just whatever hollow shit I've been dragging around lately. The sting in my lip grounded me more than any shrink ever did. Sometimes it takes a bit of blood to pull your head out of the past and slam it into the now.

And that's how I met her.
But that's for another story.