Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

The wall of bottles rattles as the train roars by outside. I jerk into consciousness, instantly regretting it. My head is hammering. I can’t remember what I did this morning. One of the bottles looks new, still has some liquid lingering in the bottom. I crawl to the edge of the mattress and lever myself off.

The kitchen is catastrophic. A heap of plates lingers near the sink. I open the fridge, drag another bottle from the dimly lit appliance. I wrench off the lid, hurl it into the sink. My headache doesn’t change after the first long swig, but I tell myself it will.

I shuffle to the window and pull the curtain aside. The light pierces my skull. I recoil. The world outside is as empty as the space inside. I raise the bottle again, hoping the bitter liquid will help fill the void.

Everything rattles again. The train making another round. How long has this journey taken me? I look at the counter to see another six-pack full of empties that hadn’t been there the last time I looked. My head throbs, and I close my eyes, staving off the nausea. When I open my eyes I’m back in bed. Bottles rattle as a train passes outside…

 

Written as part of Sunday Photo Fiction

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