Fiction: A drunken stupor

Don't ask me to vouch for the accuracy for my account, for alcohol does things to the mind. It slows, it numbs, and it makes everything one hazy fog.



Not exactly a hazy fog. But rather, a movie with scenes snipped off, replaced with blank film. I can clearly recall some snippets as though they had happened a minute ago. Staring out of the bus window in utter hopelessness. Fumbling with my phone, trying to tap out a message to someone despite the alcohol affecting my fine control of my fingers. Lying down on the sofa at home, writhing in pain. (Alcohol's not good for the stomach.)



Everything else in between these snippets were more or less a blur. Pardon me if I have to make up bits of the story here and there. That's the best I can do, the wine having addled my memories of that moment.

It started with wine. Some strong, sweet wine. Port, 20% alcohol it says. 3 glasses of it. It evades me what spooked me to down them all at once, even despite being with my extended family, with a great possibility of embarassing myself right there and then with my drunkenness.



Trying to infer backwards, I probably had alot on my mind then. The usual calm, sober me wouldn't have downed that much alcohol at once. I've forgotten exactly what was on my mind. Come to think of it, it's sort of funny that alcohol does make you forget your sorrows. But it brings on new sorrows.

A glass. Then another. And yet another. And I felt the world around me slow down, the lights brighten and a warm feeling coursing through my veins. I couldn't be seen by my family in that pathetic state.

I went home. Alone. Remembered struggling to keep my eyes glued to the traffic light so that I'd know when to cross. The alcohol intoxication was getting worse. The cars kept rushing by at the speed of light. The green man lit. I walked across. I don't recall much after that, except the headlights shining in my eyes.



I just wished for a truck to run me over. A pathetic existence I am. It's the alcohol talking, but perhaps the alcohol might be talking more sense than my self delusion. What am I living for? I don't know. I'm here, on Earth, messing up everything here. Everyone here too. Even the air I breathe's tainted by me.

Next thing I remembered was being on the bus. Answering messages on my phone. Refusing phone calls from my closest friend, for I didn't want the friend to hear me being in such a pathetic state. I regret it. Being drunk and so lost in my drunkenness I wasn't there for when I was needed the most.

Next was another road. Truck, oh please do me in, put me where I belong.



Home. Sofa. In the dark. Writhing in pain with all that alcohol messing with my stomach. I closed my eyes, not knowing what would be in store for me the next time I open my world-weary eyes.