The Monster and His Mockery

ough the soles of your shoes. Colored lights sliced through the artificial smoke, glinting off bottles of li

duffel bag on the floor. The money was supposed to be for Sarah. His wife. It was the money from selling their hous

ng through a tube, her world shrunk to the spac

kini top of the woman sitting on his lap. Her name was L

o generou

our it into glasses. He shook it, spraying the sticky, expensive liquid ove

and he knew it. A show f

r a second. Two figures stood there, looking completely out of place in the sea of flashi

' s parents,

ecoiled as if she'd been struck, her hand flying to her mouth. Mr. Smith, a pr

a path clearing before them as

voice was a raw whispe

. He took a long drink direc

ap, shifted uncomfortabl

slow, deliberate motion. A cru

ble, his voice loud enough for everyo

s bottle in

r the music. "Drinks are on me! A toast! To my de

cheered. But those closer to the table

us red. "You bastard. That' s her mone

sound. He looked directly at his mothe

doctors said so themselves. We sold the house to pay

body shaking. She stepped f

e need to... we need to talk." Her plea was soft, a stark contrast to the brutal noise of t

as if it were a piece of garbage. He

but it was firm, dismissiv

ard, her husband catching

e background. The only sound was

back on them, pu

ered a waiter, his voice cold a