Piss Poor Comfort

Just before dawn and half past dead the floor on the way to the bathroom swung beneath my feet. The clock’s pendulum had nothing on me and my sorry existence.

Gin never did agree with me; that was your bottle.

Sorry I drank it.

Somewhere between grief, the gin, and sleep deprivation I could have sworn I heard an acceptance of my apology in the next round of, “Sam…you…me…” Several waves of muscle spasms precluded any deeper consideration of the perception. Unlike most of my actions thus far, they were at least productive.

A cool sweat appeared across my body bringing a round of shivers and goose flesh. Flopped against the side of the tub, half delerious, I started at the sight of your phantasm in the doorway. The image flickered and was gone, presumably back the bench, maybe back to Hell.

I wasn’t sure.

I was beginning to be less sure of a lot of things.

Warmth betwixt myself and the tile floor contrasted to the general chill in my body and soul. I knew what it was, just couldn’t care.

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