Les Monstres Terribles

He swirled his glass counter-clockwise three times, tuning his every sense into the poison he so desperately clutched in his hands. The chime of the crystal against the ice, the flickering light glistening off the warm pool of whiskey and the intoxicating scent of many memories all entered his mind like a threatening haze. Any attempt to convince himself his new found solitude was pleasing was soon trampled by the undeniable truth that he could barely breathe without her. Leighton Maxwell Torrne now regretted how he had always silently snarled at her incessant request to put down the liquid fire. Her soft, precious voice had always pleaded that it brought nothing but darkness, unveiling a sinful side that she had wished he'd kept at bay. On rarity, he would retaliate and refute her claim, convinced the burn was for the demons. Without the ingested dullness, the drudgery of the common world would consume him entirely, its evil would run rampant. The demons, he claimed, although dangerous, kept him sane, kept him stable, kept him alive. Leighton nearly laughed... treacherous little monsters, he used to call them. Nothing compared to the demons he now had to face on his own. More o... more...