05-22-2019, 03:48 AM
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 BANG BANG BANG.
most people would argue that shooting a load of ammo wasn’t the best way to vent your frustrations. after years of practice, addy had to say that he disagreed. three empty beer bottles shattered, falling apart on impact with the bullet. the redhead’s eyes narrowed with concentration, firing a few more rounds into bottles placed in harder places along his little beachside set-up. after years of doing this, he also had to admit that he was fucking good at it - and it was probably one of the few reasons he was so damn good with a gun.
there were things that he had been running from his whole life. his childhood, his years spent in the gang, all the things he had done while in the gang… memories played beneath his eyelids every time he blinked, every time he closed his eyes. all of those innocent people, and he hadn’t realized until the clearwaters had given him a taste of his own medicine that it had been wrong. god, how could he have done that, how could he have -- he gritted his teeth and - BANG.
he was running low on beer bottles. either that or he had way too many problems to try and shoot the woes away. truth was that he was stressed, and he was scared. his past was slowly but surely catching up to him, and he felt like it was impossible to get away from. the redhead had been doing so well, here. finally, after years of feeling like he never belonged anywhere, he had found the badlands. but, instead of getting the recognition he thought he deserved, he got - humiliated and disobeyed. fucking shit. after a moment of processing the thoughts, his gaze flitted over the few empty beer bottles arranged in front of him, his finger on the trigger - just for him to lower the weapon and, with a deep sigh, turn to face towards the ocean.
maybe target practice wasn’t the best solution for running away from your thoughts. it had at least worked for most of his life, he decided. he had decided he needed to take a momentary break from the target practice, though, as he dug around in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. quick to light one, gun still in the other hand, he took a long drag before releasing the smoke into the air. the stress of everything was building up, and he didn’t know how much more he could take - but he was trying to cope, in case the broken beer bottles and cigarettes didn’t get that point across.
//yikes this is bad but
y’know
some good old target shooting, because what else do you do when you’re stressed tf out ig
 BANG BANG BANG.
most people would argue that shooting a load of ammo wasn’t the best way to vent your frustrations. after years of practice, addy had to say that he disagreed. three empty beer bottles shattered, falling apart on impact with the bullet. the redhead’s eyes narrowed with concentration, firing a few more rounds into bottles placed in harder places along his little beachside set-up. after years of doing this, he also had to admit that he was fucking good at it - and it was probably one of the few reasons he was so damn good with a gun.
there were things that he had been running from his whole life. his childhood, his years spent in the gang, all the things he had done while in the gang… memories played beneath his eyelids every time he blinked, every time he closed his eyes. all of those innocent people, and he hadn’t realized until the clearwaters had given him a taste of his own medicine that it had been wrong. god, how could he have done that, how could he have -- he gritted his teeth and - BANG.
he was running low on beer bottles. either that or he had way too many problems to try and shoot the woes away. truth was that he was stressed, and he was scared. his past was slowly but surely catching up to him, and he felt like it was impossible to get away from. the redhead had been doing so well, here. finally, after years of feeling like he never belonged anywhere, he had found the badlands. but, instead of getting the recognition he thought he deserved, he got - humiliated and disobeyed. fucking shit. after a moment of processing the thoughts, his gaze flitted over the few empty beer bottles arranged in front of him, his finger on the trigger - just for him to lower the weapon and, with a deep sigh, turn to face towards the ocean.
maybe target practice wasn’t the best solution for running away from your thoughts. it had at least worked for most of his life, he decided. he had decided he needed to take a momentary break from the target practice, though, as he dug around in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. quick to light one, gun still in the other hand, he took a long drag before releasing the smoke into the air. the stress of everything was building up, and he didn’t know how much more he could take - but he was trying to cope, in case the broken beer bottles and cigarettes didn’t get that point across.
//yikes this is bad but
y’know
some good old target shooting, because what else do you do when you’re stressed tf out ig