Cursed Proficiency

1 • Hello, You.

The pulsating beat of the music reverberated through the dimly lit room, neon lights casting vibrant hues across the crowded dance floor where bodies moved in sync, lost in rhythm. The people on the dance floor hopped up and down to the beat of the music, celebrating the end of yet another working week, causing the walls and the floor of the building to bounce and vibrate. Even though some of the townsfolk chose to linger at the bar and nearby tables, the atmosphere remained quite lively.

However, one individual in particular was a stark contrast to this vibrancy.

A lone and tall man sat in one of the corners of the bar, his head digging deeply into his arms while leaning against the bench, hiding his face from the rest of the world. Wearing black skinny jeans and a leather belt fastened around his waist, Mickael wore a patterned shirt that remained slightly covered by a woollen and sleeveless brown jumper. His coffee-brown mess-of-a-hair made him look somewhat like a mop - a mop with legs.

Two medium-sized glasses, or three, even, were sitting on the bar bench near his slim frame, and it was clear that he was having issues of his own. No one else approached him as he remained isolated at the bar bench, his head continuing to rest nestled in between his forearms.

Mickael had quite a troubled past - it wasn't easy being a time-travelling immortal from the depths of space. Carrying the weight of ages in his eyes, he was once vibrant with hope, now shadowed by the ache of lost love. He had remained in solitude while rapidly spiralling into a path of depression, struggling to fully grasp onto 'the one'.

Yet, amidst the tapestry of centuries, Mickael was forced to watch past experiences fade like whispers in the wind, haunted by those memories of hearts that he dared to cherish.

The music seemed to eventually drill into the base of Mickael's thick skull as his mop-head lifted, and he flagged down one of the bartenders with the wave of his long arm - in a drunk manner, of course.

Wanting a fourth refill, he slowly slid one of the empty glasses forward.

"Sir, I think you'll live without another refill," the nearest bartender called over the blasting music as he approached, a rag and glass within his grasp. "I legally can't serve you if I believe you're becoming dangerously intoxicated."

Mickael began to lazily rummage through his pockets before slapping a bill onto the bar bench.

"Another," the immortal muttered calmly, his British accent audible.

The bartender's eyes quickly darted to the bill, tapping his foot. It was clear that his temptations were growing.

Mickael's eyes rolled as he managed to pull out a twenty-dollar bill, slapping it atop of the money he had already placed down.

"Another shot. Please, and thank you."

The bartender murmured something under his breath as he quickly stashed the money into his pockets, rushing away to go and get Mickael a fourth shot.

With that, Mickael's head hung low and into his arms again, a depressive sigh escaping him. He was beginning to think that drowning away his sorrows didn't seem to help him very well, and it seemed to be making his thoughts grow louder. To combat the continuous negativity arising within him, he tried to allow the music to soothe him, but it didn't help; it did not help one bit.

Already having lived 220 years of his immortal life, Mickael was beginning to give up on love. After all, who would love an immortal such as him? Let alone a human - why would a human love an immortal such as him? Their lifespan is too short compared to his, he pondered. It could never work.