I awoke up that morning aching and groggy. My eyes squinted against the morning sunlight. It was bright out, and likely hot—though the air conditioning of the apartment seemed to be doing its job. For once. I rolled over and stuck and arm out to turn on my lamp. My arm connected with an unknown object, which crashed onto the ground and shattered. The bottles. My eyes fluttered all the way open, and I sat up. The headache surged through my body, like a wave crashing on a beach. I had to furrow my brow to keep my eyes open. I steadied the remaining bottles on the nightstand, then carefully turned the lamp on. The dim light flooded the room. I had bought this lamp specifically because the light was soft enough to not blind me in a drunk stupor. I leaned over the side of the bed to look at the mess I had made

The bottle had shattered on the floor. The translucent brown pieces of glass glistened against the light. There were dozens of tiny pieces, and a few larger ones strewn about on the floor. Beneath them there was the slight residue of liquid from inside the bottle. I reached down, and picked up a small shard of glass no larger than my fingernail. I held it nimbly between my thumb and index finger, rolling it with the slightest pressure. How interesting that this shard could do so much damage to me, yet I held it at a knife’s edge between my fingers without the slightest fear.

My mind wandered as I spun the glass shard. The night before had been long and full of pain. I had started drinking as soon as I had gotten home. That morning—yesterday morning—I had woken up to an empty bed and a note on my dresser. “Goodbye Terrance” it read. I guess she had finally had it with me. The arguments rung in my head like church bells at noon.

“I didn’t fuck her!”

“You piece of shit you fucked her and you know it! Don’t fucking touch me!”

“You’re acting crazy again. If I’m being such an asshole maybe you should just leave!”

“Fine! Maybe I will!”

She had dug her nails into my arm that night till I bled. I spun the glass harder and harder against my skin as I thought about it. I had thrown her off of my, locked myself in our room, and gone to sleep. When she left, I went to work dazed and confused. The phone calls, the paper work, even the conversation with Lucy, the woman we had fought over, were all a blur. Her voice danced against my ears, the flirtatious whisper haunting me. I could still feel the sticky sweet vibrations against my ears; the scent of pink cotton candy perfume in the air.

But come nightfall only solitude was there to comfort me. I turned back to face the lamp on the other end of my bed. Dozens of bottles were stacked haphazardly on the table. I absentmindedly squeezed the glass shard harder as I looked over that side of the bed. More bottles, caught in stasis on their sides, as if they had rolled for miles to stop as they were. A wave of anger passed through my chest. This was all her fault, I thought to myself. Then pain erupted in my hand. I had squeezed the glass shard to tight, and it had burst through my skin. I dropped the piece in my other palm. The brown hue of the glass was stained against the heavy crimson of my blood. I looked back to my fingers, and watched as the pool of blood dripped down into my palm. I carefully removed myself from the bed, taking care not to step on the glass, and went to the bathroom to clean up my life.



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One thought on “THE MORNING AFTER

  1. Pingback: A YEAR IN THE BOOKS | cassadyblog

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