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[attr="class","displaytitle"]i am both the sacrificial lamb

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and the executioner

the snake pit is silent, save for the sound of the rain pelting against the roof. it is late—very late. outside, the streets are slick with water and grime, and every once in a while, a rumble of thunder sounds off in the distance.[break][break]

in the back of the bar, tucked away in a small office, absinthe sits, slouched over an old wooden desk, bathed in the dim glow of an equally old desk lamp. on the desk, an unfinished glass of amber liquid, forgotten. in her hand, a photograph. it is worn at the edges, a testament to the years since it had been taken. in it, a younger absinthe—no mask, no scars—stands beside a man absinthe barely remembers now. they are both smiling, a happiness that seems almost foreign to her now.[break][break]

with a heavy sigh, absinthe sets the photograph down, her eyes drifting to the calendar on her wall. november fourth. her birthday. she should have known—it wasn't as though she'd been able to forget, not really, but it still feels strange, the realization that another year has passed.[break][break]

there are no candles to blow out, no presents to unwrap, no friends or family to celebrate with. just the rain, and the silence, and the ever-present weight of the life she'd lost.[break][break]

"happy birthday, absinthe," she mutters, lifting her glass in a mock toast. "may this year be as shitty as the last."[break][break]

she downs the rest of her drink in one gulp, wincing as it burns her throat. then, with a sigh, she pushes herself up from her chair, grabbing her coat and keys as she made her way to the door.[break][break]

it is late, and she is tired, and for once, absinthe doesn't want to be alone. she'll go to the lab, lose herself in her work, like she always does. maybe this year won't be so bad. probably, but there's always hope.