brandvandet

Whiskey splashed into a glass, drips slopping haphazardly onto the nightstand. Balthamel lifted the drink, downed it, and poured another. The second quickly followed the first and he lifted the bottle for a third before setting it down again and slumping onto the large, silk-sheeted bed. Rigidly, he kept his hand from reaching out across the distance, gripping his fingers into his fist in order to crush the impulse. Every night. Every night. He knew the bed was empty. Balthamel remembered all too well. That awareness, that absence, had settled within him, solidifying and deepening until the fact of it changed the very gravity of his soul. Ev