The Savage Road: Journal of the She-Hulk

The Bar Incident

The bourbon tastes good. Burns a little bit going down. A bit of pain in exchange for a bit of pleasure. Pretty much sums up the deal we call life, or at least how I know it.

My name? A few men have already asked for it, and I decline politely here at the bar counter. I'm not here to make friends. Can't even risk accepting a free drink; it might give out the wrong impression. I'm here to take one moment of solace, enjoy my drink, then move on. You see, I can't stay in one place for very long. Not this bar, not this town -- and if the next incident that happens is bad enough, I'll have to leave this state behind too.

Sorry, I guess I'm getting ahead of myself here. If you're reading this, you need to know the truth. Well, I need you to know the truth. Somebody besides me has to for my own sanity. 

My name is Rebecca Reynolds. Right now, I'm that woman at the counter you see out of the corner of your eye trying to be discreet, brown hair framing a freckled face. I'm wearing a simple button-up shirt and jeans that haven't been washed in a week; they're both still in one piece which is more than I can say for a lot of my wardrobe. If you were to approach me, I'd stare at you with my brown eyes and tell you thanks, but no thanks. Trust me, your attention is better spent elsewhere.

Funny thing is, I'm an extrovert. Used to love being among people, chatting it up, going out with the girls, sharing a drink with a guy. But ever since the accident, I can't do that anymore. I'm states away from home, and this is the first drink I've allowed myself in a bit. Which reminds me, time to take another sip.

I feel the burn again in my throat. Got a good pour on this one, I think the bartender could tell I'm lonely. I don't have much, but I'll be sure to tip him a bit extra when I leave tonight. Could use the karma. 

I'm almost done with this glass, and I consider another one. Bourbon takes the edge off. I have a lot of stress in my life right now, and stress isn't good. Stress causes me to change. Literally change.

You see, there's something inside of me. It's hard to describe what it is, but over time it builds and builds and begs to get out. It only needs an excuse -- anger, fear, pain, stress -- and I lose control. When that happens, people get hurt. 

I don't want to think about that right now. I catch the bartender's eye, and he understands, and reaches for the bottle to get me my refill.

"Let me get that, darling," says a voice to my left. I catch a man in my peripheral vision, but don't let myself look in his direction. Buzz cut, plaid shirt, broad shoulders, a few days unshaven. "You're too pretty to be drinking alone tonight," he continues.

Not the most clever pick-up line, but far from the worst I've heard. "No, thank you," I say, keeping my attention forward. "Meeting some friends in a few minutes," I lie.

He doesn't take the hint. "Well, let me keep you company for a few minutes then. It's all I ask!"

"I appreciate the gesture," I respond, "but tonight's just not a good night. Maybe tomorrow?" I lie again, hoping it'll get him to leave. No such luck.

The man brushes his hand back across his buzz-cut scalp and shakes his head with an annoyed laugh. "Darling, I don't care about tomorrow. I'm here now, and all I want is to share a drink with you for five minutes."

He's annoying me, but I'm calm. I lift my bourbon glass and finish the remainder of the drink, then let the empty glass rest on the bar. "Again, no thank you, but appreciate it." I wave off the refill to the bartender, scoot off the bar, and land on my sneaker-covered feet. With my brown hair falling in front of my face, I look away from the man and grab my bag. "Have a good night, sir."