To be continued...

I couldn’t help but feel a little sick when I woke up. I was fine when my eyes first opened but as they focused, so did the hangover and sketchy recollections.  The smell of under-age sex and cherry cigars hung in the air like a curtain attempting to hide the two men who sat in an odd position on the couch. One still gripping the gaming controller and the other…gripping something else. I had to kick and shuffle my way to the kitchen. Navigating the sea of passed-out bodies and empty bottles was more than my fragile state was willing to take on. I heard a few groans as toes connected with heads but the alcohol had made damn sure that no one was going to wake up any time soon. The sun was starting to heat the air encasing me and as a bead of sweat rolled past my eyebrow I caught a glimpse of something no one should ever have to see…

The most important meal of the Day

I couldn’t quite make out what she was complaining about. She complained all the time so each of the vocal daggers she aimed at me just melted down into a swirling pit of general disapproval. The ignorance of youth and the parent-told picket fences of what was to be my future had splintered and were now nothing more than annoyances and pending infections. I have given up on pretending to care. A nod and a grunt seemed enough to shut her up so that was how we communicated for the last few years. The bitch squealed and squawked in her banshee fashion and I grunted in her general direction to let her know that I was listening while muttering to myself about how little I cared to try to help with her latest saga. I reckoned her moods were a result of menopause and too many decades of reality tv shows and soap operas. I hope she never looks in the corner of the wardrobe…I’ll never hear the end of it. I cannot be blamed for seeking alternative entertainment. She hasn’t aged well and the aftermath of having 3 kids hung on her hips as if to taunt me. She was never my ideal woman but a few beers, a backseat and a positive pregnancy test sealed my fate tighter that the doors on a submarine. This was my existence. My prison.

I hauled my arse up off the couch and made my daily donation of dishes into the sink. If I was going to have to pay for a maid she may as well earn her keep. She was easy on the eyes which made the fact that she was utterly useless at house-keeping, a little easier to bear.

My family life was headed down faster than the beers I chugged down with Greg at the local watering hole. Misery loves company and I was fucking miserable.

I waved blankly at the kids that morning and gave my banshee a peck on the cheek to avoid her false concern about ‘how distant ‘I had become and how I needed to try harder for the sake of the children. Bullshit. The kids haven’t lifted their eyes from some screen of some sort since they were old enough to type ‘LOL’…I wasn’t going to hurt anyone’s feelings.

Rancid bitch.

I climbed into my suffocating corporate attire and headed toward the garage. There she was. My baby. The only thing I had to show for 30 long years of hard work, nappy-changing and keeping up with the Joneses. I put on some Black Sabbath and relaxed for a while, feeling the velvet-soft caress of the upholstery against the back of my neck. I opened the window just a bit. Just enough for the hose…

The Morning After

It was a typical Tuesday morning and I stumbled out of bed and promptly started nursing the latest hangover I had to add to the collection of blurry memories and headaches that I had been experiencing a lot lately. I didn’t know what I was running from or waiting for but at least the nausea and pain in where I think my liver once was let me know I was still alive. Great. I spent way too much money last night and the cigarette hanging out of the side of my mouth reminds me how much I must smell like the floor of a bar. Just another day in paradise.

I eventually found my sunglasses which had secured themselves to my coffee table with the cunning use of spilled beer and whiskey. I never could stop at one. I dragged my ass to the fridge seeking anything cold and sweet. Sadly, all the cola that I did have was in glasses scattered around the room and they were all mixed with some sort of booze or cigarette butts…not my idea of a wholesome breakfast. I headed out of my hole-in-the-wall motel and went to find somewhere to eat something.

I walked into a restaurant where the ting of the bell above the door woke the ‘chef’ and the waitress that were leaning on the wall between the kitchen and the fine dining area. I glanced up and caught a glimpse of him wiping the left-overs of a head cold off his moustache. He looked roughly as excited about life as I was. I found myself wondering about the people that came into this establishment and imagined that the beer must be great because no one in their right mind would come here for the food unless they were very brave, very stupid or very desperate. ‘Mary Lou’ grabbed a tattered menu and showed me to a booth by the window. ‘Lovely’, I thought to myself. ‘Now I can watch society’s reject bin roll by while I cut into my carefully-prepared nondescript lump of grease’.

  I was the only one there so I couldn’t imagine why she looked confused when scanning the tables to find somewhere to seat me. I ordered coffee…the only thing I thought may be cockroach-free. The scent of it coming out of the percolator was a welcome smell to mask the cold, stale stench of wood polish and broken dreams. ‘Mary Lou’ came back with my coffee. I think I was wrong about the cockroaches. She was clearly air-headed but while rambling off the specials of the day, she shot a look at my hands and blinked nervously. When I woke up I had been to hungover to notice the blood clumped beneath my finger nails…´I guess that explains the body in the bathroom’, I thought to myself. I really should lay off the booze…

Reign on my Parade

I couldn’t help but notice the scars on her face as she walked in. Such a pretty, young thing. The wind outside had not been kind to her hair and as she lifted a hand to brush a few strands away from her eyelashes she stalled halfway through the action.

So young, so much potential and so shy. The scars beneath her left eye refused to be hidden behind the thin veil of honey blonde she so desperately hoped would hide them. ‘Ouch’, I thought, ‘That must have hurt’. I peered at her over the rim of my coffee mug. It tasted like shit but on a day like this, any warmth was good warmth.

The wind howled.

The scars were pretty bad so I can understand why she keeps either her hair or her hand in front of her face. I’m by no means a voyeur but there is something so captivating about the deep, red marks on her otherwise porcelain skin. Like a broken doll. Shattered perfection. She sits down surrounded by what looks to be family and friends. Another joins the table and I see that familiar brush of hair in front of her face. She’ll never regain the confidence she once had.

Prom Queen.

I see the shifting eyes of her party. They want to stare without staring. They feel uncomfortable looking at her but they smile and pretend they don’t notice a thing. I brush my fingers against my pock-marked cheek, avert my gaze and catch the eye of the waiter. That wobbling lump of gelatine cleverly disguised as cheese cake has not gone down well, my coffee has seen its last and it’s high time for me to leave. Important things to do

 I know how she got those scars. Neither she nor her shifty-eyed family will ever know. She went out with a friend. Had a few drinks. She made the mistake of ‘getting friendly’ with the wrong man. I wonder if she’ll recognize me.