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Ramsa took the bottle from the waitress and took a long swig, slamming down on the table. The glass bottle hitting the bar caused quite a sound, but Ramsa was too embarassed to look to see if anybody was staring at him. He began to shake.
What's wrong with me...
He hadn't eaten in days, partially as a testament to his father, that he was a stronger man than he would give him credit for, and partially because he did not bring food. Alcohol probably wasn't the best substitute for real food, and he knew it. He knew that every last sip of that concoction he was guzzling would send him to his grave if he didn't get something to eat.
He mustered up all his courage and strength to just speak to the group next to him.
Y-y-you wouldn't happen to have any food you can s-s-spare would you?
Ramsa collapsed and hit his head on a stool. He tried to pull himself up on the bar, but his hand slipped on the drink that was spilled earlier when he slammed the bottle down. The drink fell to the ground and shattered.
It was a difficult scene to watch. He had lost it, temporarliy, and he needed help.
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