From what I remember, I had a pretty bad night. There were bottles of Schmirnoff scattered about in general disarray. The phone, off the hook all night, bleated its see-saw discord into my eardrum all the night. I hadn’t made it to 9-1-1, most likely just 9-1.
Sharyn had asked me weeks earlier to stay the night, and I had promptly forgotten right after. No reminder text, no excitement call, no prior communication. Just showed up at the door, wanting in.
“Ay, fucker,” she said, smacking her gum between bleached molars, “you forgot our date.”
I had slept for most of the night and, of what hadn’t been covered in vomit, my shirt was half-torn. What the hell. I had gotten violent, but that wasn’t the only result of my night.
To my left, a cold broad. Teased hair, some pulled from the root to split end from her scalp. One blue eye opened, black and swollen. A fat, purple lip. Another bang at the door.
“Come on,” Sharyn said, not knowing she truly didn’t want in. She kicked at the doorframe, knocking a picture loose just inside the door.
The girl must’ve been a day under 21. How I knew this: she was drinking from a Solo cup the night before. She clutched one in her dead, rigored hand. I wished the covers would have pull themselves over my face and smothered me. It would have been better than the next five hours until my death.
Thus begins our nameless narrator’s journey to death. Death is imitation, or is it? Stay tuned.
Thanks to Daily Mail for a somewhat relevant photo. Will take down when I can find a better.