The Alcoholic

His hands twitch. His body bent over the toilet. His stomach keeps heaving, trying to rid his cells of the poison.  The sheet of fog that alcohol gently tucks around his brain is slowly being lifted. He cannot let the clarity come. He will not let the fog go.

Wine. He needs wine. He goes to the shop. He pulls up four bottles of wine. As he goes to the checkout the lass behind the counter gives him a smile. "Rough day?"

 He doesn't answer, angered by her tone of superiority. He wants to shout at her. He wants to slap her. Yes it's a rough day. Every day is a rough day. But he doesn't.  He knows she's right. He doubled his usual shopping list. It was a bad day today.

 He grunts instead. He takes his change and leave.

Back home he opens the cap. Places the mouth of the bottle to his lips and lets the slightly sour taste trickle down his throat. Slowly at first. Like a crack in a river dam. Then more until he feels like he's drowning in the red liquid.

And the fog comes crashing down. And he can see clearly in the dizziness it brings. No emotions. No memories. Just the bottle of wine.

It was a bad day today.