“Ow! Bastard!!” Someone’s poking me in the eyes with needles.
I can’t make them stop.
As I become inured to the agony under my eyelids, I’m grateful for numbness. I turn away from the bright light. That might help. A sound in the room.
“Why the hell did you do that?” I manage to mutter.
Marion says ‘I thought you’d want to wake up.”
‘No, I don’t… Did I say I wanted to?”
“We open the curtains every morning. What’s so different about today?”
“I feel terrible.”
“Must be those cocktails you had last night.”
“I don’t drink cocktails.” I slur. “I drink beer. Man’s drink.. Why?”
“Cocktails…” Even the thought revolts me.
“Something to celebrate, I guess. Your team won.“
“Which one?” I’ve several teams I support, based on their performances.
“England”, the Scotswoman wielding the curtains blurts out.
She’s brought in my tea. I smell bergamot and can’t keep my throat from opening like a drain.
My wife leaves me to the smell of my own vomit.
But England won, I remember and weakly manage to punch some air …
If you’ve a strong stomach, why not read another alcohol tinged story?
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