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The tips of my ears don't tend to show up in bathroom mirrors. Unless we are talking about the real fancy ones at fine restaurants or dressing rooms, I often am stuck trying to droop them down or pulling at them with my paw if I want a look. Worse even, for whatever reason, I always seem to get random shit all over them. I just touch a marker and suddenly I see black dots running up these damn ears.

I'd love to just trim them off, take my tail with them. They make me a freak. Drunks think I am a rabbit half of the time and small talk is littered with "do you hit them on doors?" or "can you bounce on your tail?"

It felt like every time I looked into this filthy mirror in the dive bar's bathroom I hate its reflection. I hate how familiar the reflection becomes. Too many drinks and suddenly I feel like I've been looking at it my whole life. I can't escape it, but at least the bandaging gave me cover.

Jess's friend, Deena, fixed me up the best a first year in nursing school could. I'd told her a thousand times I didn't need her help as blood dried upon my cheeks and chest was painted violet, but she didn't listen--she knew better to not listen to me in times like these. It's why I sort of liked her... just not enough to invite her.

I invited all my other friends out tonight though. We're a swell bunch. Jack, Morgan, and Fireball. They waited in drops at the bottom of shot glasses where I had sat. The rest of my friends... well, I told them to go fuck themselves if they thought they were coming out to this bar and they knew just the one.

It's what I always found myself hating. How they'd take this. Enable it until it became a second nature. On good days, I'd try to make up for this. I'd tell them how I'd be a ghost in this world without them and try to ignore how just last week I'd been in a screaming match with Jess over something I couldn't remember.

Damn I hate myself. I hate how I come up for a breath of air in this bathroom and think I can be better, but I won't. I don't even have that title to my name anymore thanks to that asshole with a bigger dick than me. Fuck I wish I could forget that. I bet I'm bigger hard than him. I bet my cock has seen more action than his. He's just an asshole, but girls like shit heads like him. Shit heads like me.

I wheeze to the mirror and whisper it to hold me to my promises. I beg that it showed someone else within it, because all I saw was the same features of the worst person alive. I'm not a bad person, not as bad as I could be, but I'm not good enough either.

"Hey Roger, you in there?"

Jess, a brown wolf, leaned onto the counter. "Deena told you that you can't drink on painkillers," she shot a glance my way, "And yet you're here. Do you want to talk about it?"

"I told you not to come." I rolled my eyes and sipped a shot of fireball.

"Why wouldn't I? I know you lost and your little ego is all bruised. This shit always gets you going."

I downed shot and slammed it on the table. Stepping up from my stool, I turned to her and I grimaced. "The guy was a fucking loser. I wasn't even trying. I just wanted to get out of fighting those dumb fights like some shit head beefcake and it worked. I lost and now I can sit here."

"You aren't getting away that easily." She slid the bartender her card. "How about you stay for a round of shots to celebrate you not being a shit head beefcake then?"

I gave her a once over and brushed up my ears. I felt too damn sober, but the counter was still littered with empty shot glasses. Five of them, yet I felt like I hadn't drank a drop even with painkillers messing up my liver. "Fine," I plopped back down. "But you talk about boxing for two seconds and I'm out."

"It's on the house, for one of our own," the bartender, Jim, said sliding us shots of that cheap syrup.

She looked like death. "This tastes like a college girl's piss shot."

I smirked and gave a nudge. "That's why I like it. Fireball is easy to shot."

"Next you're going to pull out a Marlboro red and try to blow circles."

I slammed a pack on the table. "Try me."

Her playful attitude died at once. "Please talk to me. I know when something matters to you, Roger. You can't snuff this shit out."

"I can sure try," I glared. "Buy me a shot of something strong and I'll squawk."

"You can just talk. You don't need this. Stop the bullshit. Just talk. Are you seriously okay just giving this shit up?"

"Where's my shot?"

"You know that--"

"I know what you're going to say and I don't want to hear it," I leaned in and talked slower, "Don't fucking speak that shit to me."

"I'm fucking done," she looked to the bartender. "Close me out."

"Jim didn't fucking charge you. Just take your damn card and leave."

She looked taken aback. "Okay. Damn. I will. I fucking will. And next time you can go to a fucking doctor next time you need someone to bandage your shit up instead of Deena. You knew she was too nice to say no."

"Sounds like her problem. Just get out of here," I waved a paw to her face, "Tell the others I am an asshole in your private group chat for me. Add the crying emoji."

Jess's face scrunched up. "Fuck you, Roger!" And she was out the door the next second.

I don't know where the rest of the night went. A hot pantheress rubbed against me in all the right ways while emptying shot glasses rubbed me in all the wrong ones. I texted some sort of apology--at least I hope it was an apology--to Jess. The night got faster as it went. It grew harder and harder to keep my eyes open. I felt myself die somewhere along the way.

I screamed on the open mic until I felt my throat sore. At some point, I got shoved off a toilet and kicked out. I don't remember using cigarettes until I burned part of my fur trying to light one. I hope I didn't drive home.

The next second, my eyes cracked open to harsh rays of light. My apartment was shit and the messages from Jess and others blowing up my phone were just as shitty. It turns out I didn't send an apology at all. I only doubled down on my bullshit. Already, I wanted to drink.

I can't tell you the last time I was sober, but I also don't know what day it is. I'm running myself down. I track the days in the ways my body slowly heals itself and how I smell--not good at all.

I work a shift or two, or three, bartending at that shit dive bar. I sneak drinks but lose track. Barry boots me after I mess up too many orders and takes it out of my paycheck. He'll let me back in a couple of days.

I knew this wasn't sustainable. The mess is growing. When I peep my head out, sober up, I can't remember who I am and suddenly I see what I've done. My job is hanging by a thread. My friends are hanging by less. It feels like I just started slipping, but I am already at rock bottom.

Rubbing my eyes, I lose a week before I know it. My arms felt like floppy noodles and I had new bruises I didn't recognize. The strangest part was that I no longer felt hungover. I felt lost in some sort of dream state where all the shit that's gone wrong was floating away from me. My mind ran on dial-up and I was a drooling loser, but a happy one.

A deep sensation of relaxation filled me from head to toe and every time I closed my eyes I was dreaming. It felt like being sedated and reality bent itself around me. If a drug could give this feeling consistently, I might get addicted to it.

I feel like I can't remember the last time I showered. I changed clothes... sometimes. I eat at least, though it's frozen meals and fast food. Though I rarely looked into mirrors, I knew I had put on weight somewhere in all of this.

Eventually, everything in my life didn't make sense. Days buzzed by and my bank account shriveled heavily. I knew this wasn't sustainable. I had to stop this bullshit at some point or I'd be using that savings account. The only promise I had left was not touching that filthy money.

And when it was all said and done, I was walking into that shitty old gym again.

A familiar raccoon gave the biggest smile once more while doing a head turn. "Roger Roo! Back again so soon?"

"Hey, how much do I owe ya for a day?"

"That's the spirit. That's the spirit," he patted my back. "I knew you can't be kept down."

"How much?"

"Not a dime," he sucked in air, "Bucky decided to give up the title. He even gave back the damn trophy I made. Said you should have it instead. What a nut job."

"You're fucking with me again."

"I wish I was. The trophy is in my office if you want it. He left some business card with it."

I furrowed my eyebrows. "Ah fuck. He knows he has that title until I beat it out of his face. The fuck is this? Giving it up? You can't just give it back like that. How did you fucking allow this in the first place?"

"There is no way that asshole was staying here. He's off at Terry's of all places. Would rather have a champion that showed face."

"Like me? I'm not your champion. You can throw that title on a hobo for all I care. Fuckin-- just give it to Tyler. He practically lives here."

"Haven't seen him. Bucky beat the shit out of him when that dumb hyena challenged his title. Didn't last a round."

I rolled my eyes and huffed out air. "I shouldn't have come back."

I held up the old school wired phone to my muzzle. It rang twice before I heard him.

"Hello?"

"Hey asshole! Where the fuck did you go?"

"Roger Roo! I knew you'd call. Buddy, how you doing?"

I sighed, "You can't just give up a title. That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works."

I could tell he was smiling while he spoke. "Oh so you want a rematch then?"

"Yes, I want a rematch. I'd kill to beat the shit out of you. You're just a rich little asshole stomping around in your daddy's sequence dress and fighting with diamonds on your little paws thinking you're something, but you're NOT. I heard your dumbass went to Terry's."

"As if your dad doesn't make you sparkle. I'm really quite happy to hear you keeping tabs on me after I struck down your title in one fight."

"A lucky fight."

"I'd tell you Terry's is quite lovely. I wear my sequence gloves quite proudly here. You should come visit me. I'll be here till 8."

"I'd rather die."

"Ah come on. We can shoot the shit, grab some drinks, and maybe you'd learn a thing or two."

I hesitated and just grunted.

"Just look for my gilded heels and gold earrings," he said. "See you soon."

"Shit head," I said midway through him hanging up. "That fucking shit head." I took a couple of heavy breaths and felt my paws tense up. I pocketed the business card and was on my way.

"Where you going? I got a bag ready for ya!"

"Can it, coach," I snorted. "I'm beating the shit out of him."