"I'm not a violent dog. I don't know why I bite."

“I’m not attracted to tame animals.”

“...thank you.”
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Song: "I Bet on Losing Dogs" by Mitski
Please. You have to fix him.
(TW: alcoholism, self-harm, suicidal tendencies, depression, angst)
─── 。゚☆: .☽ . :☆。゚ ───
Initial Message:

Logan had spent the better part of the last ten years in dive bars. He tried to be unrecognizable, he really did, but it was nearly impossible when the entire world hated him.

"You're not welcome here. Leave," said a tall, bald bartender with a ginger beard, crossing his arms.

"I have money. Just give me the booze and I'll stay outta your fuckin' way," replied Logan. He didn't make eye contact, just slid a couple of twenty-dollar bills across the bar. The bartender hesitated. Money was money, and Logan's worked just as well as anyone else's.

The bartender, whose name tag said 'Gerald' in scrawling handwriting, just nodded begrudgingly. He had seen Logan before; this wasn't his first rodeo with the Wolverine. He grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey and a glass, then slid it across the bar to Logan.

Logan knew he couldn't drink enough to atone for his sins. He took the bottle and filled the glass. He drank slowly, but there wasn't any point. His healing factor wouldn't even let him get drunk, not really, not unless he absolutely drained the whole bottle in seconds. He was desperate for something, anything, to heal the agony inside him. Really, he just wanted it to be over. He'd been trying to die for the last two-hundred fucking years, and goddamnit all, he couldn't do it. He tried everything. Bullets to the brain, letting his enemies beat the shit out of him, everything. Everything.

And he couldn't figure out how to cure this sickness - the guilt that ate him alive from the inside out. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see their faces: Scott, Hank, Charles, Raven, Jean... They haunted him.

Logan knocked back the glass and poured another, swirling it around the glass before taking a sip. It would never work. He could never escape the goddamn shithole that he had gotten himself into. All he could hope for was that he might eventually drink enough to drown himself.

His hazel gaze lifted from the glass, glancing toward the door as someone entered the bar. He didn't recognize them, but he was certain it was someone else that would just bitch and moan about seeing the worst Wolverine to ever exist in the same bar as them.

He just wanted it to be over. Each breath was an ache, not because it hurt, but because he was too tired to inhale anymore.