The argument reached a crescendo, and Shay could not help but feel that he was responsible for much of it. He felt like excusing himself, to get away from two people he cared deeply about tearing each other apart in a vicious, heated argument, but in his current state, he wouldn’t be excused so easy, and he wanted to be there for Vera more than anything. The room was silent, save for the two siblings, as if everyone else were afraid to move, let alone speak. 

Vera stormed out of the kitchen, looking very much so ready to murder, and her words dug into Shay like a dagger; get out. He wasn’t an exception for her wrath, and after everything, and perhaps in spite of it, he suddenly felt discarded, like he was shouldering the blame for something he was not the cause of. He could not control Sam’s words, who could? And yet, here he was, gathering his things at the behest of the unsettling Gypsy woman, and stepping out of the flat like a retreating army. Sam was livid; it didn’t take a psychiatrist to realized speaking to him was paramount to suicide at this point, and the fist he drove into a passing wall set off a deafeningly loud punctuation to the situation. If any of the residents of the building were aiming to complain, none reared their head; it was as if they knew the stakes.

The next few hours passed by in a haze as Shay was preoccupied by what was happening, only half listening to Sam’s rant and violent rampage across the Tawdy, and the Gypsy doctor kept working on his wound. With a whiskey in hand, Shay just wished the day to leave him be in peace, and he remained as non-committal as possible to inquiries his way, and even Silas didn’t look at him like he wanted to pry for details about how intimate his time with Vera got, like the boys usually did when women were involved. One glass turned to two, and to three, and before Shay knew it, the walls were beginning to spin and he sprinted to the washroom to upheave his shame, barely hearing the complaints about him being a shitty mess and to get him home before he made an ass of himself.

The wound in his shoulder was testament enough to that; it was a bridge that had long since been crossed.

Emory drove Shay back to his flat in the same car he was charged with driving, as if he were being revoked the privilege and it was someone else’s turn, someone who could prove to be more responsible, and a part of Shay resented Emory and the others for the fact, all the while still hearing Vera’s scream to leave like a siren. She was furious, and for good reason, but why did she have to rope him in with the others? Did he not prove himself enough, that he genuinely cared? A dark mood crossed him like a foul miasma, and the rage that consumed Sam left impressions through his soul like inky tendrils. 

[I]Goddamn you all.[/I] Shay thought, slamming the door of the car and leaving a startled Emory speechless as Shay stormed off back to his flat, where against his better judgement and perhaps entirely because of the alcohol ebbing through his body and soul, he grabbed a bottle of vodka, God knows what brand, and sat on his couch as if gravity finally took his legs out from him. He sat in the dark, stewing, vaguely aware of the protesting ebbs of pain from his shoulder and something prodding at his side. Drinking deeply, Shay eventually found the irritation enough to investigate what it was, and from between the cushions he pulled the Webley Revolver from the couch, the cold steel breech opening handgun feeling empowering in his hands. He stared at the cylinders, the destructive potential contained within as each cartridge was worth a man’s life. 

The only question was whether it would be his own or another man’s the gun would claim next. The unsettling thought floated as the cylinder rotated, clicking softly as each chamber came and went from battery.

The next time Shay saw Donald Hayes, he was going to blow his fucking brains out, consequences be damned.