Snake Skin | John Marston

Drink To Forget

A day passed.
And another.
And another...

A week slipped by, and Y/N found herself entrenched in Valentine once more. Yet it felt as if she were a ghost, for the law paid her no mind. Was it her new hairstyle or the fresh clothes she wore that helped her slip under the radar? Whatever the reason, she relished every moment of the freedom it brought her.

One crisp morning, she woke with determination. She quickly left her hotel room and made her way to the saloon, the familiar sounds of laughter and chatter drawing her in like a moth to a flame.

Upon entering, the scent of whiskey and smoke wrapped around her. At the bar sat an old man hunched over a newspaper, his fingers trembling as he turned the pages. Y/N approached him, a playful smile on her lips.

"Excuse me, Mister. Is that fresh?" she asked, pointing at the newspaper. The man looked up, squinting through thick glasses, and nodded before offering her the paper.

"Take it, lass. Ain't much good to me anymore," he grumbled, a faint smile breaking through his weathered features.

"Thank you," Y/N said, accepting the paper with a nod of appreciation. She unfolded it, her eyes scanning the headlines. Most of it was the usual—reports on the weather, local gossip, and the occasional tale of crime. But then something caught her eye.

"Lemoyne Bank Robbery: John Marston, Van Der Linde Arrested"

"Hundreds Shot Dead During Lemoyne Bank Robbery: Van Der Linde On The Run?"

The woman felt her heart sink deep into her chest. No, her heart was stuck in her throat; she couldn't breathe, nor could she speak. The weight of the revelation hung heavily in the air, suffocating her with dread. That was it. That was the end.

The saloon around her blurred into a haze as she stood frozen, her thoughts racing like wild horses. The newspaper crinkled in her grasp, its headlines now an ominous reminder of the world she had tried to leave behind. Her friends—the gang—were in peril, and she was just an outlaw hiding in the shadows, too far removed to help.

Y/N couldn't help but think that the last time she saw John, she had told him to leave. A wave of regret washed over her, and she covered her mouth, turning away from the old man as shame coursed through her veins. As she made her way out of the saloon, tears flooded her eyes, blurring her vision. The pain of it all was too much to bear, and she couldn't contain her sobs any longer.

She dropped to her knees in the mud, the cold earth soaking through her clothes as she wept openly. Passersby paused, their surprised gazes falling on her, but nobody dared to approach the young woman wracked with grief. A few ladies gasped at the sight, exchanging worried glances, yet the saloon door swung shut behind her, leaving her isolated in her sorrow.

John wasn't dead, but it felt like he was. It felt like she had buried a part of herself the moment she pushed him away, and now, with the weight of unspoken words heavy on her heart, it felt as if he might as well have been gone forever.

With a shaky breath, she wiped her tears, her hands smeared with dirt, and rose to her feet. She turned back toward the saloon, a newfound determination mingling with her despair. She had only one thought swirling in her mind—she needed to drink to forget.

After spending her last coin in the Valentine saloon, Y/N lost herself in the haze of whiskey. She laughed too loudly, nearly broke the piano when she danced on top of it, and came dangerously close to starting a bar fight with a couple of rough-looking cowboys. It was a wild night, filled with reckless abandon, but beneath the laughter and the chaos, she was only postponing the inevitable.