Later, when Butch is alone off in essentially what is the middle of nowhere, that’s when all of that anger from earlier boils to the surface and pours out of him like hot lava. He thought that maybe shooting his guns might make him feel better, some target practice on bottles he can pretend are a certain lunks face—but for once, it does little to comfort him. He chucks his guns at an old pile of liquor bottles with a frustrated shout and then takes to pacing back and forth, boots crunching against the dirt and broken glass beneath his feet as he rants to his horse, Darlene.
She seems content listening as she munches away on some fresh exotic fruit he had snagged from a market somewhere in the city for her. His hands gesture all around as he rants, and as he throws them around, he can feel a spark of something at his fingertips—fire. It’s happening again but nothing had been able to quell his mounting rage, not now since he’s actually able to let it all out without actually taking it out on someone he cares about.
And he’s not just mad about what had happened earlier this morning, he’s mad at everything—his ongoing situation, what he was, himself. He’s ashamed even. He simply regrets making his way into the city that morning with Rachael, he regrets walking into that coffee shop, and he certainly regrets taking offense to that jerks words because NOW he feels as though he’s gone and ruined something important. And maybe he has. There was no way to know for sure without some sort of reassurance and he sure as hell wasn’t going to fishing for any of that.
An exasperated sigh leaves him after a long moment of throwing fire around, kicking bottles, and shattering them against trees in a fit of anger. He can feel his body growing tired with the amount of energy he’s expending so abruptly, but he doesn’t know how to conserve it in this state.
With an agitated growl, the cowboy throws his hat on the ground and stomps on it angrily, hands moving to his hair and yanking roughly at an attempt to still his nerves. Pain usually helped to distract from the pain inside, but this time it’s not very effective. In fact, he immediately feels bad for doing such a thing to an item he holds so dear. He pauses, looking down at his hat, his brows furrowing some. He’s silent for a long moment…before plucking it up off of the ground and brushing it off, another sigh leaving him. Then, he trudges over to his horse and collapses on the ground next to where she lay, leaning against her pitifully and squeezing his eyes shut. He felt utterly out of place in this world, however long he had been here… time had done little to heal any wounds since returning to the mortal realm. Why was he like this? He curls up next to his horse, hugging his hat to his chest. What was the point? Why was he still here? Was he supposed to die in that book? If so, why didn’t he? The negative thoughts don’t stop and they’re worse when his eyes are closed. He’s going to keep to himself for a while.
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