He slowly shook his head groggily and stood up. He walked out of the bar silently. The headlights of the passing cars seemed much brighter tonight as they inflamed his migraine like surgeons tools.
He crossed the street thinking about the girl with the pouted lips, remembering that she had been his first mistake. He was young then so it wasn't his fault...right? She had been struggling with a man near the edge of the bridge, and as he was making his way to her in what seemed like slow motion he hadn't noticed the car coming at him. Just as he dove out of the way he noticed the glint of the blade slicing through the air.
The girl with the pouted lips gargled for a second as a crimson arc painted the concrete. He wasn't good around blood, so he turned and threw up over the edge of the bridge. It was his fault. He took up drinking after that fateful night. Now he couldn't help getting drunk and thinking of all the beautiful girls that would eventually meet their demises. He was a puppet to the destruction. No matter what he tried he could never make a difference.
He opened the door to a liquor store and bought a beer. The clerk swiped his credit card and gave him the brown paper bag like usual, the clerks fingers brushed his.
He looked up and recognized the clerk from that horrible day. This guy moved on but he hadn't and the clerk was going to have to pay for the destruction of the beautiful, pout lipped girl.