The neon sign outside flickered intermittently, casting a sickly green glow across the rain-slicked street. Inside, the 'Blue Moon' was a symphony of stale beer, cheap perfume, and regret. The air hung thick with cigarette smoke, clinging to the worn velvet booths and the chipped Formica of the bar. A lone trumpet wailed a mournful tune from the corner, its notes twisting and turning like lost souls searching for solace. It was the kind of place where secrets came to die, and where I came to forget.
Immortality wasn't a gift or a curse. It just had its way to wear you down slowly, a long litany of failures - wars, betrayals, massacres, all memories of how powerless I had been when I was still trying to help humanity. And God I tried, I tried for so long. But now I just wanted to forget, about them, about what they were, about what they did, and mostly forget about how long I would have to keep watching while everything's falling apart.
The clinking of glasses and murmur of hushed conversations barely registered as I stared into my drink. Another whiskey, another futile attempt to numb the ache that had settled deep in my bones. It never worked, of course. Centuries of divine design made me damn near impervious to earthly pleasures, or earthly sorrows. The irony wasn't lost on me. Even a forgotten angel can't get drunk.
A shadow fell across the bar counter beside me. I barely glanced over, already bracing myself for the inevitable. Another drunk, another fool, another waste of breath. They usually started the same way: a clumsy pick-up line, a sneering comment about the wings I didn't bother hiding, or the inevitable question - "What's with the angel costume? It's not Halloween, you know." They didn't want to believe, of course, and I didn't care anymore. All I wanted was some peace and quiet, a few moments of oblivion in this den of vice. But oblivion, like joy, always seemed to elude me nowadays.
