Page 5 of Searching for Valor

Not even a dog.

He couldn’t face the emptiness of his cabin tonight. Not with his emotions so raw, his demons so hungry. So he climbed intohis truck and drove the winding roads aimlessly, trying to outrun the hollow hum in the back of his mind.

By the time he parked, fog had rolled in, thick and damp. He stared at the small, dilapidated building tucked into a grove of redwoods and realized he hadn’t been driving aimlessly at all. He’d known exactly where he was going. A neon sign flickered above the door like a lighthouse beacon, but instead of guiding him to safety, it lured him to doom.

The Broken Compass.

But only the word “broken” was lit in that garish neon.

Rylan stared at the flickering sign, a humorless laugh escaping his lips.

Broken.

How fitting.

That was exactly how he felt right now. Broken. Shattered into a million jagged pieces that he had no idea how to put back together again. Despair was a relentless poison, one he couldn’t purge, no matter how hard he tried. Therapy, medication, coping strategies. They dulled the edges but never fully healed the wounds that festered in his mind.

Fuck.

This was a bad idea.

He should leave.

He knew that.

This wasn’t the answer. Alcohol never was. It only numbed the pain for a little while, and then it all came roaring back twice as fierce. The bottle was a liar, promising solace but delivering only more suffering.

His hand trembled on the ignition key.

Just turn it. Drive away. Go home.

But he didn’t leave.

Instead, Rylan found himself pushing open the heavy wooden door, the familiar smells of stale beer and cheap whiskeywashing over him like a noxious wave. The bar was dimly lit and nearly empty, just a few regulars hunched over their drinks at the counter.

And he was fast becoming one of those regulars.

Classic rock played softly from an ancient jukebox in the corner, the melancholic twang of guitars a fitting soundtrack to his dark mood.

He slid onto a stool at the end of the bar, as far from the other patrons as possible.

He didn’t stop to think about why he was there or what it meant.

He knew.

The bartender, a middle-aged guy with graying hair and tired eyes, glanced up from wiping a glass. “What’ll it be?”

Rylan didn’t hesitate. “Jim Beam, neat.”

The words tasted bitter as they left his mouth, but he didn’t stop them.

“Rough night?” a man asked from the other end of the bar. “Let me guess, woman problems?”

Rylan glanced at the guy. Early forties, jet black hair that was obviously not natural slicked back from a sharp face. He wore a business suit with the tie pulled loose and collar unbuttoned. He didn’t look like he belonged in a dive bar.

“That’s why I’m here drowning my sorrows,” the guy added and lifted his drink. “My ex is trying to ruin me. The bitch.”

Rylan grunted noncommittally and turned back to the bar, hoping the guy would take the hint. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation or commiseration. He just wanted to drink until the sharp edges of his pain were sanded down to a dull, distant ache.

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