The Art of Everyday Life
As the first rays of sun hit the edge of my bed, I crawl into a small ball of alcohol and smoke fumes. The light is almost a torture for my poor and broken soul. The white of the sheets hurts my eyes to the edge of insanity. All I wish for in this most disastrous moment is for time and light to stop. Trying to fall asleep is like spinning around on a merry go round as it goes faster and faster. I can almost feel the bed sinking into the floor, much like the carpet in that scene from Trainspotting. I realise I should drink about five gallons of water before falling into the dark abyss of sleep, but I doubt I would even make it to the doorway. Blinking gets me on a roller coaster to destruction. The darkness of the back of my eyelids embraces me and drags me toward the ninth circle of hell that will be there when I wake up.
And here we are, five hours later, and I can taste the cheapness of last nights drinks, the ashes of my cigarettes, the lack of water, and energy. I try to slowly move my legs and I feel like a train just ran into and over my head – repeatedly. Every sound feels like a herd of bulls tramples all over the insides of my ears. I try to reach over to the pills on my night stand, and my vision tunnels, making them seem as far away as soberness feels when you’re on your fourth bottle of wine. After what seems like an hours worth of struggle, I manage to reach for a miracle in pill shape. I slither to the edge of my bed to search for a leftover bottle of water. I desperately swing my hand around, but can only find empty spirit bottles. I hate my drunk self. If only I had drowned myself in water before bed, I could now at least stand up and reach for the sink. Disappointed, I throw my head back on the pillow, pills in my hand.
I start chewing on the pills, as I recollect last nights mischief. Images start flashing before my eyes, and bits of discussions fill my ears. My god, how can my friends stand me when I drink?! – I scream internally. As always I seem not to remember how and when I got home. Did I get home alone? Did I pay for the cab, did I walk home? These questions haunt my every morning. As I sit up, back against the wall, the stench of corner shop piss and cheap tobacco hurls into my nose and lungs. My stomach clenches, my skin almost shrivels up. I creep into the bath, throwing my clothes wherever I can, and sit down, letting the water wash away the shame and sins of last night. I cough up pieces of burnt lungs, spitting them into the water. Damn those fantastic hundreds of fags I poisoned myself with. The water drains down the mixture of blood, lungs, ashes and sins.