Red As Stoplights − 18 August, 2007
Slowly I find myself waking up, and it feels as if the room is on fire. I'm sore all over, my throat is so dry I almost can't breathe, and my head feels as if I slept with it in a vice. I look at the clock. It's seven thirty, and already the sun is pouring mercilessly through my window. The light is like knives to my already burning, and seemingly swollen, eyes. I pull myself out of bed and move thickly into the kitchen. I look around the blurred room for anything liquid that's safe to swallow. I find an unopened bottle of water in the fridge, and as I press the cold plastic against my forehead I praise it as nothing short of miraculous. I unscrew the cap and whet the forest fire that's burning in my throat. In a few greedy swallows the water is gone, and I toss the empty bottle in the trash. Or near it.
Standing unsteadily over the toilet, I piss for what seems like the better part of the morning. Once I finish, I move myself in front of the mirror, and it's a beast I find looking back at me. I had slept with my hair in a ponytail, and by morning it had found it's out and was hanging in greasy strings around my face. My eyes are so bloodshot it frightens me to look at them. It looks like I shot the whiskey straight into my eyes, I think, and I'm not surprised to find that I wouldn't be surprised if I had. My face is unshaven and unwashed. I nod silently at the mirror and agree that, yes, I have seen better days.
In the living room, I find a seat in a rocking chair in the corner. Rocking slowly and cursing the throbbing in my temples, I think back on the events of the previous night. I remember doing shots, and lying on the floor for about an hour with a fatal case of the hiccups. I remember getting suddenly nauseous, and just barely making it to the bathroom. I passed out on floor in front of the toilet for a long time, and only came to long enough to wipe the vomit from my mouth and fall into bed.
I remember nothing else. As my hangover reluctantly ebbs, I look around at the remnants of my night. There is a sad black face drawn on the inside of my arm in permanent marker. A scratch runs down my wrist and through the center of it. And sitting ominously on the kitchen table is an empty fifth of whiskey that had been full just twelve hours before.
Comments:
intrepideddie (August 20, 2007. 05:18am)
Brutal. Frighteningly amazing how accurate you describe it. I've had mornings like that. I would always swear off alcohol as I nursed my 3-day-long hangovers... The resolution rarely lasted longer than a week or two.
kga245 (August 21, 2007. 07:08am)
@eddie - as evidenced by your pic :-)
intrepideddie (August 22, 2007. 03:13am)
@kelly -- ah, yes, that was a lovely <a href="http://www.trappistwestmalle.be/en/page/dubbel.aspx">Westmalle Dubbel</a> (Belgian Trappist beer) at one of our favorite pubs in England -- the New Inn at Appletreewick, North Yorkshire. And at 7% alcohol, I'm a <i>really</i> cheap date.