Green Bar Descriptive Writing

It’s almost last call. It has reached the point in the night where the sensible members of society have left, leaving only the hopeless drunks and a few young couples too lost in trivial conversation to realize the bar is closing soon. That’s a lie. This place doesn’t bring in any sensible people, in fact it hardly brings anyone in at all anymore. I like to remember how it used to be—so full of life and genuinely pleasant—and pretend that’s still the way it is. But this bar in particular, which I have been forced to call home, has become pretty rundown. I’ve been here long enough to see it evolve, or more accurately, devolve. Layers of dust have accumulated on the wooden shelf behind the counter, under the big bottles of heavy liquor. The bottles
My time has finally come, I thought. I am removed from my post, finally free. I feel the cold air for a moment, and then I’m smothered by death. A sharp surface pierces into me, dismantling my figure. I’m shredded into bits and pieces. What is left of me is lifted and dropped into a pile of garbage. They paint over the olive green wallpaper. They change the name of The Moosehead Tavern.
As I experienced my end, I acknowledged a pent-up insanity within me. How does one stay sane if they are not free? My optimistic views were only hurting and not helping. I should have been outraged by the treatment I was given by humans. But I skipped over that anger, as I finally reached peace. For the first time since my body was penetrated by bullets, forcing me to the cold, snowy ground, I felt nothingness again. I am now irreparable. There is nothing to do now but escape life and find relief in death. No more living vicariously through others, or being conscious through days and days of torture.
The Moosehead Tavern changes into a hotel lobby. New, more productive members of society are brought into the location, unknowing of its previous appearance. The cycle of life decides the fate of many things, but I welcomed it with open