In the Kitchen, On the Counter.

In the kitchen, on the counter, I had a half bottle of gin. It was just before noon and what passed for light in those months crept through the window and wheezed and coughed and died on my bedroom floor. I laid half uncovered on my bed staring at the water stain on my ceiling. I had been awake for a half hour or so and was getting my bearings. I had no reason to get out of bed. It wasn't wonderful anymore.

I reached for my phone on the window sill near me. Email. Facebook. Texts. Two missed calls. 

I threw the phone into the closet.

Each day was grey and each day was cold and each day was another day of making the best of it and closing my eyes and telling myself; this is what we do. This is what we all do.

December never came as a surprise. My bones would creak and my skin would dry and my heart would sink and I would stare out the fucking windows as some acceptable death crept and dragged his fingers across the trees and the landscape and the people and me. 

I laid in bed half uncovered and the water stain on my ceiling was growing.

Another ten minutes passed and I got out of bed and I was getting fatter. I couldn't look down at myself. I covered it in a robe and walked into the kitchen. I poured a large glass of water and drank it and then another. The clock on the microwave said it was ten after noon then and that was perfectly fine. I filled the glass with gin and set it on the counter while I went to the bathroom to piss.

There was nothing for breakfast. I took the gin to the computer and sat down. The word processor was open from the night before and only two words had been written, spaced halfway down the page;

"What now?" 

I didn't know. I sipped at the gin and it was dry and sharp and my mouth wasn't ready for it, but I had already poured it so I swallowed a large drink down and by the time I felt it, it wouldn't matter either way. I deleted the words from the screen and thought that I would try again. 

Light shown like frames through the cracks where I had nailed blankets over the windows. I thought about running duct tape around the seams. I'd never remember to buy duct tape. In a few hours it'd be dark anyways.

I typed;

"In the kitchen, on the counter, I had a half bottle of gin."

I stared at it and I'd need a new glass soon. My stomach was empty and screaming at me. I'd order a pizza later or walk to the gas station at the corner and buy some nuts or jerky or a pot pie from the cooler. I had to type something worth a shit. I had to write something. I had to write. 

Nothing came. The gin disappeared and I felt okay after a while and the one line floated against the white screen beaming away in the darkening living room and my chair was uncomfortable.

I swallowed down the last of the gin. I wasn't hungry anymore. I sat on the floor next to the chair and thought I'd get a new perspective on whatever the fuck I was writing. I laid on my back and rolled on to my side and thought that maybe none of this was real and that maybe I wasn't alone. 

I have hollowed this place. 

I have hollowed me.

I keep waking up.