Bottom of the Barrel

His eyes blinked several times, trying, in vain, to focus on his surroundings. The drab, dark colored walls of this motel room didn’t help him orient himself as he lie on the bed, nearly paralyzed. Only one pale light from the bathroom, whose door was nearly closed, gave him any sense of where he lay. His right hand still clutched the empty bottle that had recently been poured into his mouth. The last drink was too much. He’d gone too far again.

The slow, rising feeling in the back of his throat began, and a panic raced through his mind. It was going to happen again and he couldn’t stop it. His arms twitched frantically, trying to raise his body to a sitting position, before conceding defeat and collapsing back upon the bed. His stomach rumbled lightly and it came. He used all the control he had to turn his head and let the bile and alcohol from his stomach splash next to where he lay.

A soft whimper escaped his lips as a single tear dropped pathetically from his left eye.

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