An Evening at Home

I chase four Excedrin with two shots of bourbon.

“That ought to do it,” I mumble to myself.

I return the bottles to my 'medicine cabinet' and plop down on the couch, immediately regretting my decision to plop. My head pounds throbbing, screaming, waves of liquid pain, right behind my eyes, and follows a knotted rope down into my shoulders and back – I have a migraine.

I lay there for a moment, catatonic. The light filtering in from the late afternoon sun sears my retinas through my tightly squeezed eyelids, and I can feel the bourbon spreading warm through my belly like piss through a pair of jeans.

Moving seems unwise, and actively thinking about anything is out of the question, so I allow my mind to wander. It doesn't go far, apparently too wounded to undertake any major excursions. Mainly I think about how much my head hurts. This comes fairly easily and without much coaxing.

My eyes feel like grapes being methodically stomped to wine. My neck seems to have been reconstructed with bits of barbed wire and electric fence.

My stomach burns pleasantly.