Tabula Rasa

This wasn’t the bar he remembered. A gentle green neon sign that had never been there before flashed on and off overhead, illuminating the faces of old, worn-out men. BEER $4 Off. Nobody moved, or even stirred. BEER $4 Off. Heads were sunken into hands all along the bar. BEER $4 Off. He studied the faces of these ancient, remorseful relics, encapsulated by the way their lines and wrinkles sagged and swam, creating a map of life across their cheeks and foreheads. He delicately prodded a fleshy face. Nobody moved. It felt like he was walking through a still frame, through a captured moment hanging in neither time nor space. His fingers traced the frayed leather of the decrepit stools, and a faint musky smell filled his nostrils, making him recoil in disgust. He noticed that the sign hadn’t flashed on in a while. Slowly, he turned back to the bar, where a sea of glowing eyes were fixated on him. He had to get out. He turned to run, but the door was no longer in the space he thought it had once occupied. A pair of hands landed on his shoulders, threateningly making their way to his throat.