"...ugh...oh, mercy..."
The agony pulses as if it were breathing, sending wave after wave pounding through his skull. He slowly begins to sit up, clutching his head helplessly as the pain hits him over and over in battering crescendos. What had happened last night again- ?
Oh...yeah, he remembers, lurching slightly as he holds back an uneasy stomach.
...whatever...she was a useless mattress, anyway.
Another stab of pain, another gag.
"Ugh..." he groans, fighting the chills and fatigue as he attempts to crawl to the edge of his bed, a familiar but horrid regret washing over him, "...why...do I always....always...do this to myself?"
The plaguing discomfort soars to new nauseating heights as he manages to stand up, his aching legs kicking into high gear as he rushes to the bathroom with hardly a second to spare. His heaving groans border on outright yelling as he violently unloads whatever remains in his stomach into the toilet, tears streaming down his cheeks as they're driven out by the sickening expulsion. It hurts...more than usual, he thinks. Is he getting sick now, too? Or is it perhaps that he's simply growing older? Twenty-four was hardly what anyone would call elderly, but 'youthful' certainly wasn't how he felt, either. Everything was just...so horrible, so draining, so spirit-crushing, especially these days. Between the death, the overreaching bureaucracy, and this newly overcrowded way of living, life had become bleak enough to have its story written, published and sold on the thriller and horror shelves of bookstores the world over...or what remained of it, anyway.
Another wretched heave and he's shaken back to the present.
"Oh, God, why...?" He groans, slumping against the toilet seat, "...why does everything suck? Why is everything...the way it is...?"
How long had things been like this? How long had he been like this? He didn't know. The alcohol was never enough to kill the dread or the aches in his chest, but what it did succeed in doing was liquifying time like helpless candle wax under a flame...and now it was wearing off.
Once more, the young man becomes acquainted with the pain, thick as tar, burning low and relentless, squeezing through his veins, his heart, his mind. The tears dripping from his bloodshot eyes slowly begin to increase, from origins of sickness to sadness in a matter of mere moments. He backs away from the off-yellow seat, slumping backwards against the outer wall of the bathtub, holding his head in his hands as he quietly sobs.
"I can't..." he croaks through hitched breaths to anyone who might hear, "...I...can't do this anymore. For the love of anything that might matter...get me out...get me out of this hell..."
He had no idea when he had last cried. It was so...sudden. For years, he had prided himself on his ability to appear 'fine', even in the midst of feeling like he was slowly dying...then again, didn't everyone do that these days?
A sickening chill shoots through him as his mouth once more begins to over salivate. He can barely lean back over to the toilet in time before another fierce eruption of vomit spills forth, his throat staining with the slow burn of acid.
"Please..." he manages to say breathlessly, "...please, God..."
His eyes suddenly snap open. He couldn't remember when he had last addressed a higher power of any kind, or even prayed...years, no doubt. He didn't care for it, never felt that it had any kind of benefit, not anymore, at least. If one couldn't see tangible evidence of it working, what was the point?
What the hell was that all about? He wonders, ...am I really that desperate...?
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Almost as if in response to his train of thought, another gut-wrenching heave forces him over the ceramic bowl, expressing innards even more discomforting than the last. It felt as if an invisible force had hockey-punched him with a fist of simmering iron.
"Ugh..." he grumbles weakly, spitting, "I can't...I can't do this anymore...I can't..."
Another wave of churning fluids rip up to his throat, spilling forth even more sickening bile. Another bout of tears stream generously down his face,
"...no...no more...that's it...no...more. No more flings...no more reckless spending...no more booze. I am...never...drinking again."
He can almost feel his inner voice scoffing at him,
Don't lie, you hollow wretch. Give it a day.
Finally feeling that the worst had passed, he wipes the streams from his cheeks and dribble from his lips as he leans back against the opposite wall, trying to make the most of the cramped bathroom. For a few minutes, there is nothing but the sound of his shaky breathing and the quiet buzz of the aging florescent lights. Rumination abounds as he falls into deep thought, trying to be genuine with himself for the first time in what feels like years,
So...what now? Where does a guy even go from here? I barely even care about my own problems at this point...but if I keep this behavior up...
He can't bring himself to finish the thought.
He grits his teeth as spikes and dips of ache move through his legs while he works to again make them stand. Fighting the soreness, he makes his way out of the bathroom and gradually closes the distance to the fog-bordered window, struggling against the oppressive glare of the overcast daylight as he lazily scans the world outside.
So much grey... How any of us have kept our sanity here is a mystery to me...
The view from the small apartment serves little good other than to remind him of his confinement, his lot. Dull brutalism, soulless propaganda, empty citizens...never could he have predicted the world falling to such a wretched, lowly place.
Watching the tedious meaninglessness beyond the glass, he begins to feel that thick, inky blackness ooze through him again; that peculiar mixture of burning sadness, searing disdain and a subtle, muted sense of hope that things may someday soon turn around for the better...a feeling he often dismissed as wishful thinking.
He does little to stop his eyes and head as they begin to act almost on their own, well on their way to turning from the outside view when something catches his attention. He stops and looks back out along the cityscape. There, in the distance stands a cross, distinct but cluttered enough by the the antennas across the foreground that it's easy to miss. He remembers it from before, it had always been there, but he never really gave it any thought. For some reason, however...right now, something about it just seemed...so...
No...no, no, come on, you're not actually considering going, are you? You haven't been since you were a kid.
There is an edge of condescension to his thoughts as he tries to reason with himself,
You're an angry, wasted, scornful piece of work, you really think they'll let you in? You've likely broken every rule in their book, attending one of their services would be...
"...revealing?" He finishes the thought out loud, "Yeah...probably...probably..."
All they're gonna do is judge you and make you feel worse about yourself...do yourself a favor and don't do it.
Don't. Do. It.
The young man looks to the clock. 9:38 AM. A brief moment of hesitation is broken by quickened rustling as he snatches up his coat and strides out the door.
