Reaching for the bottle of JD that’s jumbled up in my covers, I groan in frustration and let it fall from my grip when I realise it’s empty, clearly having finished it off last night before I crashed on the mattress. To many, this bed of mine is nothing but a poor excuse for a resting place that belongs in the gutter, but to me, it’s everything I’ve never had and more valuable than I deserve.
My mind doesn't appear to be as raw as yesterday but it’s not respectfully pleasant either. I’m hungover and grouchy. I’m often fucking grouchy. I rarely sleep when the darkness hits because my thoughts are on a sickening spinning wheel that never stops until I fall into a whiskey-filled coma.
Thoughts of her.
Thoughts of what I should have done.
Thoughts of what I didn’t do.
Thoughts of what may have been.
Thoughts of what should have been.
Her scream.
Her cry.
It all rotates in my mind on a constant loop, and nothing and no one can calm the raging storm inside—not even my meds.
Damn. Fucking. Meds.