Thursday, September 8, 2011

Story-A-Day #301: In A Mood


He was in a mood, and not a good one. He knew it from the moment he finally managed to pull his sleep glued eyes open and let the harsh morning light into his life.

The hangover was one thing, a dull throb that pounded right through to the very marrow of his bones. It was a hangover to be sure, but he was used to those aches and pains. He practically subsided in that twilight realm of throbbing numbness.

Today was something different. Today, he was different. There was an undercurrent that drove him upright when he normally would have lay in his cocoon of booze tangled sheets for at least another hour as he adjusted to the obliviating reality of a whole new day.

This morning, he didn't feel empty, he felt mean. He felt vicious even.

Today he felt like a sac full of rattlesnakes, tensely coiled and ready to strike. He felt like a vulture, buzzed on the anticipation of picking clean the bones of his enemies.

He took a long swig from the quarter bottle of whiskey next to his bed and scratched unaware at his sweaty underwear.

Today was going to get ugly.

He coughed, a long racking earthquake of his chest that let loose a small tsunami of lung butter, and lurched to his feet.

He ejected the refuse of his chest into the small kitchen sink and watched it slide off the macaroni encrusted plate it splattered on and down the drain.

Collapsing onto the frayed, battered couch across from his bed, he picked up the small six-shooter from the nearly as small side table and popped open the barrel.

Six bullets. Six shots.

Today would be the day he finally fulfilled the promise he had made to himself seven years ago.

Today, he would end the life of a parasite. He would place this gun to a man's head and blast out the brain that had spawned far too much ill and evil.

He was in a mood today, but it was a mood that six quick shots would easily remedy.

He took another deep pull from his whiskey and wandered towards the washroom where he promptly face planted into the cast iron tub.

He managed to get the shower flowing and watched as a narrow rivulet of blood slowly disappeared down the drain. He felt his sweaty wife beater and jockey shorts slowly cling to him like a filthy, diseased second skin, and nodded off to sleep.

He did not dream. He simply drifted through the empty black that seemed to follow him no where he went and what he did.

It was comfortable. Familiar. Still, there was a nagging undercurrent below.

He was in a mood.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone. Please excuse auto corrected errors!

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