Busted Head: ch.1

“Dumb bitch”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”

I was on day two of a potential three day hangover after six or seven or eight days of drinking. I mean a solid six or seven or eight days of solid drinking. Like nothing but alcohol. No food. Maybe a stolen handful of nuts or popcorn at the bar or a slice of pizza if it's free. Nothing crossing the cracked lips that wasn't rated with a percentage sign. No juice, no water no nothing. Maybe a trembling fidgety glass in those terrifying morning moments between bed and the fridge. Maybe a head stuck under the bathroom tap in the middle of the night. Maybe a tumultuous glass to get something back in the guts after a session of puking. In that horrible interval between puking and drinking when you just can’t get more alcohol down. When trying to force it down is just a waste as it's just going to end up in the toilet, if you're lucky and can still aim, that is.

I had been puking steadily for about an hour. After puking up that much stuff you don’t know where it could possibly be coming from, since you haven’t put anything in. You get to thinking that the solid stuff coming out is probably stuff that shouldn’t be coming out, stuff that's got a place in there that is supposed to be forever. But it comes out anyway, nothing you can do. The sooner you let it out the sooner you can get started, that’s one thing I learned.

“We need to talk. I’m coming in”

Yes. Talk. We need to talk. Please talk to me. Please help me. Come in. Stop the shaking.

“Leave me the fuck alone,” poured out with some stubborn bits in my mouth that were no longer welcome. Acid ribbons flowed over and got into the bleeding cracks of my swollen lips and hung there clinging, slowly stringing their way towards the toilet, but refusing to let go. I gripped the cold porcelain to try to grab a hold on the world, but I was shaking so bad the toilet threatened to pull away. If I could have followed the puke down I happily would have.

“Listen Burke, I’m worried about you. You're dying and it's killing me. If we don’t talk about your problem, I gotta get off the roller coaster.”

No. please. Not you. Please don’t leave me. You're all i got. Not you. Please . I’ll change. I’ll stop, I can do it for you. For me and you.

“Fuck you then.” I spat the words out and they sounded like the just barely undrinkable shit in the bottom of a beer can with a couple of cigarette butts in it when you’re pouring it out, wishing people didn't throw cigarette butts into good beer, but knowing it was probably you.

She paused for awhile and I could hear her thinking, could hear her seething and knew she was hurting. Knew I was hurting her. Knew I was killing her. Knew that right now I didn’t care. I needed a drink, first of all. Before I could deal with her. I just needed to clean out the old guts and replenish the system and I’d be right as rain. Good. As new. I’d do something nice for her if I made it. Buy her something. Well probably not buy her something. But maybe do something for her.

“No actually, fuck you Burke.” As she spoke I felt the quiet resolve enter her voice that wasn’t there before. She spoke softly and her voice cracked but the words slipped through the door and easily found me laying prone and spent and worthless. There was no hiding from them, not this time. They sought me out and lay upon me with a gentle smothering of thick cigar smoke in a dirty basement.

I shuddered harder as I shook, grasping the toilet and knowing she was gone. I’d heard those words before. Not from her but from the others. Actually I’ve heard them before from her but never felt them like this.

“Get your shit, actually you don’t have shit.. Get the fuck out before I get home from work. And don’t steal anything that’s important.”

The door vibrated softly as she spoke and I knew she leaned against it with her tender cheek against the cheap veneer. I heard the handle begin to squeal a little and then stop. I knew that even then I could open the door and look to her and plead a little and she would come to me and stop the shaking and wipe my face with a warm cloth. That’s all I wanted. I needed her. I just needed her to love me and take care of me. That’s all I needed. That, and a drink.

I tried to reach for the door but knew if I let go of the toilet I would fall off. There was nothing beneath me and as the room spun faster I grasped the cold toilet tighter and lay my face along its cool, dirty rim.

Can’t you see I need you? I need you. Please.

“fuck you,” I cried.

I knew that underneath her words was sympathy. Longing, the desire to help. I knew because I had used it many times times before. I knew it was there. But as I spoke these last words tears fell and mixed with the dried puke and piss on the rim and she tore herself from me like a jagged IV and spun and left.

I felt some temporary relief that she was gone, because I knew that there was probably alcohol in the house and I could get some in me without being judged and fucking preached at. That’s all I needed, just a couple, something to take the edge off, make me whole. Something to take the place of the chance at salvation that just crashed out the door.

I knew things just got a whole lot bleaker, but didn’t care. I wanted to finish puking out whatever else had had enough of me, and go find some fresh life. There was no use thinking of the future before that. There was no thinking of anything before that. There was only that.

I knew I could crawl my sorry ass out of there and find a drink and feel better without the burning eyes of judgement cast upon me. The freedom of knowing I was all alone, if only for a few minutes, most likely eternity, had a delicious tinge, free of the after taste of guilt and shame.

I rolled my lolling tongue off the cold white toilet and onto the fuzzy, stinking throw rug. The rug was moldy and damp and smelled of a thousand dirty old feet, but it gave a little under my throbbing head and felt good, comforting. I rooted my face around a little, like a pig rooting for grubs, wiping off the hardening bits of vomit stuck in my grizzled stubble.

I rocked a little and managed to sit up, but the inside of my head got there first, and wasn’t ready to stop when the outside did. My brain bashed against my skull, wanting to get out, wanting to go, wanting to go after her, wanting to leave this sorry sack of used up shit behind and pursue sanity. But I wasn’t about to let that happen. There was no way my brain was going to start leading me around now, I thought. Not after this many years. Why change now, I laughed. After all things were going so well.

With gentle shrieks of pain I cradled the rug and gently brought it to my face. I closed the rest of my swollen eye slits and languished in the simple comfort of the soft bristles against my face. It felt good. Trying to scrub away some of the shame and evil I had done. I sobbed a little and breathed in the mold and scrubbed away at the pain, shame. The shame wasn’t coming out but after a while I was reasonably sure that most of the puke was gone. Good enough for the girls I go with, I laughed.

I leaned forward and got my shaking arms up on the cheap pedestal sink and slowly rocked forward, building momentum and then slowing down when my head started to bash around or my guts started rebelling. Eventually I was able to put some weight on my forearms and I slowly raised my self up like a ragged phoenix from ashes of puke and foot stink.