A Story A Day. Story 33 of 365: Drunk.

Drunk. That was the word. He was drunk. Wasted. Shit-faced. He was particularly sharp taking into account his level of drunkenness. What time was it? Which day was it? How long had he been drinking? There were several empty bottles of beer in front of him, too many actually, how was it possible that he had had so much beer at home? Had he been drinking alone?

He remembered nothing. Hell! He almost didn't remembered what his name was. But he remembered one thing, her. The one thing he had wanted to forget. The reason he had started drinking. And, still, he remembered her as if she were in front of him.

He could see her smile, her soft pink lips curling in a mocking smile. Her dark grey eyes sparkling, her eyelids half-closed, her dark long eyelashes. The pimples on her nose, light brown against her fair skin. Her black hair, long, curly and silky, as it used to be. She knew he couldn't forget her. He missed her so much that he was hallucinating. He raised his hand, stretching, hoping to be able to touch her, finding only empty air. After opening yet another beer, he chugged it down. Maybe he was not drunk enough.

Next thing he knew, he was lying uncomfortably on the couch and the beer-cementery had reached considerable proportions. The sunshine hurt his eyes and made him want to retch. He crawled to the bathroom and puked in the toilet, it reeked of vomit already, so at some point of the night he had paid a visit to it. When he was done he lay his head on the cold floor, hoping it would calm down the terrible hangover he had inflicted to himself. However, no cold floor could calm its heartache.

Lying in the floor he heard the front door opening. After that some rushed footsteps approached him, and a pair of warm hands checked his vital signs. He woke up shortly after, as soon as the warm water started pouring over his head. He was lying in the bathtub completely naked. The deft hands of the nurse were washing him. He saw that all his bandages were off, and the ugly cuts showed everywhere.

The nurse had short blond hair, she must have been around forty, but had a matronly air over her. She bathed him silently, and when she was done and he was dry, she bandaged his wounds back. Only when she brought him breakfast she did talk.

-Were you trying to kill yourself, kid?

He denied with his head, his mouth full of toasted bread.

-So what?

He swallowed.

-I was trying to forget. To forget her, to forget that I killed her.