Tales of a Neverland Lost Girl

Alex's Night

Before I begin I would like to apologize for prolonging this update. I'm just going through some personal things right now. I appreciate your patience and I'm loving that almost one thousand people have read my stories.
It just makes my day better when I know someone is connecting with my work.

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A man's night, his choice of drink and what he does with both is his own business. A man does not flaunt himself and his situations into the universe. Everything is internal. He deals with his own battles in his mind. There is no need for him to seek help. He should stand and work out his own problems and any problems that concern him. A true gentleman knows such things.

Unfortunately, this is no gentleman.

This one can't even see straight. This one is letting all of his internal business out into the open for the world to beckon at.

This one is Alex. Alexander Welsh.

Nothing too special about this one. Nothing shines too brightly in his eyes. Sure he is misunderstood and, at times, at war with himself. But he is no criminal. No murderer. No rapist. He is just him. Simple and common. Your average Joe.

He is no gentleman. He knows not how to carry himself. He speaks with no class. Walks with no purpose. He is nothing of importance and isn't extra ordinary. He just is. It's not his fault. There's nothing wrong with him.

Then why does he think there is?

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April 5th, 1943, Alex Welsh's breath reeks of liquor. It's two hours past midnight and he is fumbling around the outside of a local Irish pub. He's been visiting more frequently and the owner has taken notice.

Ricky, the pub owner, noticed his drunken customer stumble out. He shakes his head and walks out to the man in his white apron and bow tie. He walks out of his establishment and finds the young man sitting on the sidewalk, humming a lonely tune to himself. The bright, spring moon shines over the cobble stone street. The sidewalk glowed under the moonlight and shined a shimmering silver. It was cold enough to need a jacket but warm enough to leave your hat at home.

"Hey, Alex, whatcha doing? You gotta get outta here. Ya can't stay out here all night. Go home, Alex."

The owner grabs under his arms and tries to pull him to his feet. Alex lays down all his weight and plops to the ground when the owner can't pick him up.

"Naaaaaaa, man! I'm fiiiiinnnnnneee here! I love this place. I love it, Ricky."

The owner rolls his eyes and crotches down beside him.

"Come on, Alex. You gotta get up. I don't wanna call the cops again."

Alex stops his swaying and remembers a few nights ago. The police had to come a peel him off the side of a car that he had puked on. He had to pay for the wash to get it out as well.

"No. Come on. I'm not hurting nobody....." Alex realizes he's not wanted. "Fine whatever. I'll be back tomorrow, dick."

Alex pushes himself up and staggers away from the pub owner.

Alex had been drowning himself in whiskey since Wall Street crashed. He was up to his neck in debt and he couldn't afford his lavish house anymore. He downgraded to his sister, Rosemary's, basement. He now had a noisy roommate by the name of Butch, who loved to snore and eat Alex's shoes.

Alex had escaped Rose's house in order to get away from the constant fighting of Rose and her husband, Tommy. Day and night the two would bicker and scream over their two-year-old girl who didn't whine nearly as much as them. Vivian, the baby, was left to Alex when Rose was fighting a war in the kitchen. Alex was sick of the fighting and the baby.