In the dingy, dimly lit corners of McGowan’s Pub, the stale scent of spilled beer mixed with the low hum of casual chatter. The bar was located on a forgotten street in Baltimore, where neon signs flickered like broken promises. It wasn’t the kind of place you’d expect to find Ethan Mercer, a rising indie musician and proud Straight Edger, but here he was, sitting uncomfortably on a cracked leather stool, tuning his guitar for an impromptu set. He’d been asked to play by a friend who was late—typical.
Ethan had never understood the appeal of bars like this. The noise, the smoke, the dead-eyed patrons clinging to their glasses like lifeboats. It wasn’t his scene. He preferred coffee shops or intimate venues where the music mattered. Here, it was just background noise.
Just as Ethan started to wonder how long he had to endure the place, the door swung open. In walked Rachel Hayes, her nurse’s scrubs in disarray beneath a beaten-up leather jacket, clutching her bag like a lifeline. Ethan noticed her immediately—everyone did. There was something about her that didn’t fit, as if she’d stumbled into the wrong world but decided to stay anyway. She slouched at the bar, eyes already glazed, and ordered something that looked too strong for someone in her state.
The bartender, Al, didn’t even blink. He poured the drink with a practiced hand, his expression as indifferent as ever, not caring that Rachel was well past what most would call enough.
Ethan cringed but kept his mouth shut. Who was he to judge? He turned his attention back to his guitar, plucking a few strings to distract himself from the growing discomfort of the scene. But as fate would have it, Rachel wasn’t done with him.
“Hey,” she slurred, stumbling toward him, her drink sloshing dangerously close to the fretboard. “Play something sad. Like…somethin’ that hurts.”
Ethan looked up, unsure how to respond. “I don’t really do requests.”
She scoffed, sitting uninvited at the stool next to him. “Everyone’s got a sad song, even you. C’mon, let it out.”
Her voice was soaked in alcohol, but beneath the slurred edges, Ethan could hear something familiar—pain. Not just the everyday kind, but the deep, aching kind that’s hard to escape. Against his better judgment, he struck a chord, something slow and mournful. It filled the air between them, an unspoken understanding that neither had to name.
“Why’re you here if you don’t drink?” she asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“Playing for a friend,” Ethan said. “But I don’t drink. Straight Edge.”
Rachel let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “What, like…no booze? Ever?”
“Ever.”
She stared at him, as if trying to decipher how someone like him could even exist. “Must be nice. No demons chasing you, huh?”
Ethan strummed absently. “We all have demons. I just fight mine a different way.”
The words hung heavy in the air. Rachel took another sip from her glass, grimacing as if the alcohol itself had betrayed her. “Yeah, well… not all of us are that strong,” she muttered, her voice cracking just a bit.
Before Ethan could respond, she started talking. Not the way drunk people usually ramble about nothing, but with a depth that surprised him. She talked about her job, about long nights in the ER, about patients who came in broken, some never making it out. She mentioned her Aunt Linda, whose opioid addiction had spiraled out of control, ending in a slow, painful death that Rachel couldn’t stop.
“She was a nurse too, y’know,” Rachel said, her eyes downcast. “But the pain got to her, and the doctors kept writing those damn prescriptions. One day, she just…never woke up.”
The twist of her story hit harder than any sad song Ethan could play. He was silent, letting the weight of her words settle. Rachel stared at her nearly empty glass as if it held some kind of answer. The bartender was already pouring her another drink without her asking, completely oblivious—or indifferent—to the fact that she was unraveling.
Ethan leaned forward, his voice low. “You don’t have to end up like her.”
Rachel’s gaze snapped to his, a flicker of anger lighting up her tired eyes. “What the hell do you know about it? You think not drinking makes you some kind of saint? You don’t know what it’s like to need this.”
Ethan didn’t flinch. He just watched her, calm, steady. “No, I don’t. But I do know that drowning won’t help you breathe.”
For a moment, they sat in silence, the buzz of the bar fading into the background. Then, Rachel pushed her glass away, leaving it untouched.
“I hate this place,” she said quietly.
“Then let’s get out of here,” Ethan offered, standing up and slinging his guitar over his shoulder.
Rachel hesitated, her hands trembling slightly as she stood. She followed him out into the cool night air, leaving the ghosts of McGowan’s Pub behind. As they walked down the street, away from the bar’s suffocating grip, Ethan couldn’t help but wonder if this was the start of something new—or just a brief moment of clarity in the fog of Rachel’s life.
Either way, he hoped she’d keep walking forward.
That night, McGowan’s Pub stayed open late. The drinks kept coming, and the bartender never missed a beat. But for the first time in a long time, someone had left before hitting rock bottom. Ethan could only hope that Rachel wouldn’t look back.
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