A humorless, almost murderous, laugh echoes through one of Manchester's empty streets as images of her retreating back flash repeatedly within his drunken mind and the recollection of their last conversation slowly shatter his unfortunate heart. Ignoring his watery eyes, he takes another swig of whiskey, straight from the bottle the bartender offered him after hearing his story, hoping it would numb some of the pain. And he laughs again at the irony, he was right; losing her was something he couldn't handle.
Everybody has a way when it comes to dealing with pain. But all he's ever experienced were external suffering, physical agony; some of them were bearable, others hurt like hell; but none of his past injuries hurt as much as this. Is this what it feels like to have your heart broken? Is this love's punishment?
Another sadistic laugh escaped his system. He won't cry. He won't cry over some girl. Enraged with himself, he punches the closest wall employing all the strength he could master, praying that his bleeding knuckles would take his mind off Sam.
Christ. Just her name is enough to destruct what is left of his already broken heart. Closing his eyes shut, he inhales slowly; the sweet sound of her laughter fills his ears, the odor of her perfume hits his nostrils in waves, he feels the warmth of her delicate fingers caressing his cheek, his hands playing with her long blonde hair, the softness of her lips on his-...
Abruptly opening his eyes, he lets out a scream. He's going crazy. She's driving him insane; he swears his love for her will end his life. Running his fingers through his messed up hair, he curses and gulps down the rest of the whisky before collapsing on the sidewalk.
Moments of them both start filling up his memory, he doesn't push them away; he needs her, he needs to see her, to be near her; he knows that. He throws the empty bottle on the nearest wall, enjoying the sound of the glass breaking, much like his heart, taking deep breaths in attempt to calm himself down.
He still remembers the first time he saw her: it was four years ago, a week after Fintry's return, there was a party, something about the beginning of autumn, and naturally, where there was a party, the twins were there. He sometimes regrets going, then he wouldn't have seen perfection incarnated in an eighteen year-old breathtaking blonde. The music was loud; there were a lot of people but only one stood out: a bored looking girl casually leaning on the wall in the living room, away from the crowded dance floor, sipping her beer and occasionally glancing around. She was searching for the friend who promised won't leave her side if she came to the party. After a while, she caught him staring; amused, she glanced his way often.
"Just go talk to her already," Arthur nudged him.
Mac kept eying the young beauty carefully. "Not yet."
"No. Now. Come on, I'll help you. And hey, if she happens to reject you, which she probably will do, I'll take my shot." Arthur flexed his muscles, catching a few girls' eyes.
"I think we both know I'm the cutest."
Arthur snored. "Not with what looks like a dead squirrel on the top of your head."
Overhearing their conversation, Elliot followed the twins' eyes and let out a low whistle. "She's gorgeous and way out of both your leagues." Her brother glared at her.
"Excuse me; she's not out of our league," in response to his sister's chuckle, Arthur added "If you don't believe me, dear sister, then I'll just have to prove it."
Before Arthur could take one step, Mac grabbed his arm, a frown forming on his face. "You will do nothing of the sort."
"Yes." Fintry smirked, "the only one who should go talk to her is the one guy who's been ogling at her all night long."
