Another Bottle of Tequila


100 words exactly

He was gone.
Well, not gone, just... apa, apa, something.
He'd started losing all sense of coherence round about the seventh bottle of tequila.
Apathetic. His mind whirred into use sluggishly. He didn't understand what Dean saw in drinking until your legs stopped working. It didn't make you feel better, it didn't (as Dean claimed) make you forget anything, it just makes you slow.
Not that it mattered anymore. His Father didn't care. The Father he's worked for all his life-no, his existence- didn't care whether he lived or died. With that thought, he cracked open another bottle of tequila.