Overdrawn. Again.

He sighed deeply and shut his eyes, hoping that some miraculous force would fix everything while his vision was cut off. Alas, he looked back down at his phone and saw the same red numbers indicating that his account balance was once more in the negative. He set it face down on the glossy wooden bar and waved at the bartender, who cordially came over and refilled his shotglass.

Thank God he knows me , he thought. Any other bartender would have called my tab by now.

He downed this latest shot in one burning, tasteless swallow, cringing slightly as the whiskey sloshed around inside his otherwise empty stomach. A few drowsy waves began to swim across his eyesight, but he still didn't feel drunk, his clear head turning to thoughts of his wife at home.

He had told her that he was working overtime at the plant, though he hated lying to her, but if she knew what he was really doing…

He had asked for overtime at the job he hated, but he had been turned down. "Cutbacks, everyone's hurting right now," his boss had said before driving away in a Corvette. He downed another shot to try and choke back the sobs that were coming up from his throat.

This was the third time this month that he had been overdrawn, and it had definitely put a dent in his marriage. They worked on different shifts, rarely seeing each other, and their conversation lately always degraded into arguments about money, spewing hateful criticisms from both ends. She called him a worthless drunk who pissed all his earnings away, he called her a lazy bitch who didn't want to work full-time.

He gulped down one more and checked his bank balance again, then stood up and nodded at the bartender, whose lips were pursed and eyebrows scrunched in a worried expression.

"Hey, you ain't driving anywhere, are you?"

He shook his head vigorously, pushed the door open, and walked outside into the slight chill of the night. It was the truth, he was definitely not driving tonight. Looking left and right to ensure that he was alone on the street, he turned and stepped into the dark alleyway beside the bar. There, just as expected, stood two men, one holding a long, slender knife, the other holding an open cooler filled with ice.

Walking towards them, he wondered how badly it was going to hurt, and prayed that he had drank enough to sufficiently numb it.