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The stitches in your mouth; [tag; all rebels]
Topic Started: May 9 2010, 09:19 AM (165 Views)
miles lance peterson
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    i think i should know how to make love to something innocent
    WITHOUT LEAVING MY FINGERPRINTS
    l-o-v-e is just another word i never learned to pronounce, do i say i'm sorry 'cause the word is never gonna come out?
    - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
    [size0]943 WORDS . COMPLETE . OPEN

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[size0] The bar was mostly empty at this time of night, most of the rebels were away sound asleep, like they were supposed to be. Miles, however, was wide awake and tending to his alcoholic cravings. He was flooded with relief that this place had a bar, it only made keeping his addiction from the paparazzi easier. As far as the paparazzi knew he was through with his alcoholic days, because in this place he didn't have to drive to get home, only stumble through the hallways and find his dorm. Of course, there had been those times when he passed out on the floor here. Many of the other rebels weren't fans of Miles, and in all honesty it was easy to see why. He was a narcissist, he was absolutely in love with everything about himself. He was an idiot. He was rich and had no first-hand experience with the horrors of slavery, unlike most of the other rebels. And he thought of himself as above the others here simply because he'd appeared in magazines and on the television. It was actually quite surprising that he was a part of the anti-slavery movement in the first place. Perhaps there was a bit of a heart under all that glittery clothing and alcohol polluted blood. Miles' flamboyant personality and outlandish choices of clothing were never hidden, not even when he was sitting alone in the bar right now. Wearing tight fitting light blue jeans, a black vest and a hot-pink and black striped sleeveless shirt, along with black women shoes... if he weren't the only one in the bar there was no doubt that he'd be hearing plenty of gossip. Just because they shared hopes and dreams of freeing the slaves didn't mean they shared the same views on other topics. "Bloody hell," his British accented voice grumbled as he peered into his glass, which seemed to have mysteriously emptied itself. How much had he had to drink anyways? Had he lost count already? What time was it? Wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, he blinked drowsily, licking his lips and craving another drink. The light acoustic music playing in the background had been droned out, all he could feel was his thirst for yet another drink. Once he started drinking he wouldn't be able to stop until he either a - got sick all over the place and passed out, or b - got drunk and forgot what he was doing and wandered off to get some sleep (or get laid, though the possibility of this happening was becoming slim since the rebels weren't really fans of him). For a few moments he simply sat on the wooden stool, staring intensely into the glass, as if he expected itself to re-fill itself. This place didn't have a real bartender, whoever felt like serving drinks would do so, and if there wasn't anyone awake at the time then it was up to the washed up drunks to ease their own alcoholic addictions. Finally, he clambered off of the stool and stumbled over to the back of the bar where he poured himself another drink. Out of everyone, Miles was probably using the bar the most, it was pathetic really - but he felt great when he had drink so he wasn't going to feel bad about it.

Taking his drink and climbing back onto the stool, he drank deeply, pausing for a moment. Had he forgotten something? Wrenching his fingers through a mess of raven-black hair, bright blue eyes lazily roamed the bar as if it would hold the answer to his question. He felt as if he'd forgotten something important. But what? "Oh shit, was that tonight?" he said aloud, eyes wide as he searched for some sort of a calendar, he wasn't going to comb through his mind to try and remember the date - why would he in this state of mind? Then he caught sight of a calendar, and his jaw dropped. It was. His band had left for their tour, meaning they would have to replace him with that rubbish back-up singer that they had used last time he forgot about the tour. This damn place was ruining his schedule, with all the missions they were sent on to free those slaves he wasn't having time to tour or practice. It was starting to seem as if he would have to choose between the rebels or the band. Money or rescuing the innocent? Fame or saving lives? If only this place came with both of those things. Of course, if they were open about themselves they'd be shut down within a month and all of them would be arrested - possibly even turned into slaves. And that was the last thing he wanted. Why did this decision have to be so hard? Maybe another drink would help him choose one of the two lifestyles.

Licking his lips again, his gaze was returned to the beverage in front of him. Just one more drink, he promised himself, though deep down he knew this wouldn't be his last one. When did he ever listen to himself saying what was his last drink? He always drank until something bad happened, sure it was bad on his health, but he couldn't resist a good drink. Taking the glass, he drank deeply and slowly, his mind becoming cleared of all worries about deciding between the rebels or the band. He'd worry about it in the morning. Maybe he'd bring it up at their next meeting. Or not. Probably not, he didn't want to cause any more trouble for himself.


[size0]EXTRAS: Miles first post, hell yeah.(:
CREDIT: Ciara @ Caution 2.0

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