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Here’s Thursday- well, I think that it’s a Thursday. It may actually be Wednesday or a Friday,I
really can’t keep track of the days anymore. Not that I need to. Not that I care to. Anyway, on
that choice day I woke up again. I never fail to surprise myself. I suppose that’s one thing that
almost keeps me sane during the dry hours of sobriety. Rolling overm there’s a small puddle of
vomit next to my mattress on the stained hardwood floor. I must’ve fallen asleep in my dealer’
s house again. He’s so hospitable as long as he gets what he wants from me. That doesn’t bot
her me, anything for a fix, I say. Bile and partially dissolved pills. That’s it. I guess I never tho
ught about it before, but when everything your body takes in tastes worse than your own stom
ach acid, throwing up is almost pleasant. Fingers shaking, I fumble the pills into my mouth. Ho
pefully they’ll still do whatever it was I wanted them to do last night. Even a little buzz would
be appreciated right now. Now comes getting up. If I remember right. If I remember anything.
I push myself up and my hands start shaking. The shaking moves up until i can’t support mys
elf with my arms anymore and I flip over onto my back. Cold sweat makes my damp tanktop s
tick to my torso. I kick my legs out and tip myself up onto my butt. Swinging my legs over the
side of the mattress makes me dizzy. Barely missed the vomit. It takes almost five minutes to
gather the energy and to stop myself shaking long enough to stand up. Standing, I now reme
mber, isn’t so easy anymore. Wobbling steps are carrying me to the bathroom very slowly, and
it’s about halfway there that the smell hits me. Nothing, I’m assuming. Probably just my vomit,
if it was even mine. In the bathroom I take my morning piss. That’s pretty much the only part
of me that’s remained regular over the past few years. Well, it’s regular as long as I wake up,
of course. I try to flush the toilet. It’s not working again. Assuming it ever did, that is. The cra
cked mirror on the other side of the bathroom should be a lot less appealing than it is. I haven
‘t worn make-up in a few weeks or so, and with the water out, I can’t really shower either. But
he says I’m beautiful. He means it, right? Why would he lie? He loves me more than anything.
he says. Even more than her, he says. My bones really stick out. Am I too skinny? Does that m
ean I’m ugly? Was he lying to me? I have disgusting bags under my bloodshot eyes. How c
ould he love that? He must have been lying. He must hate me. I can’t believe he’d do somethi
ng like that to me. That scumbag. That worthless asshole. If he were here- oh, the things I’d s
ay to him. Look at me, look at this disgusting reflection in this disgusting bathroom in this disg
usting house in this digusting life. I don’t even remember what color the walls used to be, the
y’re so stained with smoke and bile and blood and piss and I don’t remember what else. My fe
et are covered in scars from stepping on broken booze bottles and shattered lightbulbs. What i
s that terrible smell? It’s something new. I don’t know. Whatever it is, that idiot had better dea
l with it. I’m not his goddamn maid and I won’t clean up his crap anymore. He won’t even clea
n this- whatever this is- off of the mirror. It’s sick and it makes my face look like some smudge.
Some pathetic and hideous stain. Or maybe the mirror actually is just reflecting what it sees. W
hat everyone else sees. What is. Enough of this. I need to know what the hell that smell is. L
eaving the bathroom, the smell gets worse and I remember how I don’t remember how to wal
k without concentrating on it. The living room is trashed, as usual. If only that pig would just c
lean up after himself. Oh, great, there she is, passed out on the couch again with her tongue h
anging out of her mouth like some kind of sick junkie. No one, not even her, looks beautiful wi
dried spit and bile and some kind of foam rimming their mouth and streaking their chin. But he
said I did. Is that how I look? That bastard told me I’m beautiful. He told me he loved me. Tha
t bastard. This is all his fault. His fault, just like the hole in my new chair that I stole from the r
escue mission. If he didn’t have to invite so many idiots, so many wastes of human flesh into t
his house, that crap wouldn’t happen. The knife’s still on the ground. I doubt he even whiped t
he blood off of it before he drew lines last night. Or last week. Whenever. The farther back into
the house I go, the worse this smell gets. I wonder if he had sex with her last night. I bet he d
id, that disgusting pig. That sick bastard. I never loved him, and never will. Once I find him, I’m
going to tell him. I’m going to tell him that I’m leaving. I’m moving out, and I’ll go and make s
omething og my life. I’ll go and become an actress and move to Hollywood. That’ll show him a
nd her. They’ll be so mad and everyone will love me. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier.
My family will talk to me again, and everyone will want to know me. I can’t believe how much
crap is mashed into this carpet. Food and glass stuff. Here’s the pervert’s room, with his stupid
beer poster on his door. What an idiot. Knocking on the door, the smell is even worse. I bet he
crapped his own pants or something. What an idiot junkie. He better open this door. Alright, if
he won’t, I will. The doorknob is greasy and loose. Dammit, he must have the deadbolt locked.
I pound on the door, and he doesn’t answer. Why is he ignoring me? I pound on the door som
e more, and finally the hunges just break and the door swings down and to the side. The smel
l multiplies by something like a hundred as I step in his room. He’s such a slob. Even in his ow
n room. The way it looks is there’s clothes and rags and belts and baggies on the floor all arou
nd his room. One of the baggies is ripped open and there’s some white powder mixing in with
this hideous orange shag carpet. I knew he was holding out on me. I knew he hadn’t come ho
me empty last night. That liar. That scumbag. So he’s lying face down on his bed with some pi
llow over his head. There’s some dark crap crusted on his pillowcase. Calling to him doesn’t do
any good. Not that I’m used to him listening to me. I walk over and nudge him with my foot. S
till no response. He’s probably too hung over to hear me for feel anything. When I try, the pillow
w doesn’t pull off very easily. Like it’s stuck to someting. Finally it comes off and it comes off w
ith red chunks of things on it and there’s a hole in the back of his head and there’s his gun nex
t to him. Oh God. No. Not him. I love him. He’s so nice. He can’t be dead. I can’t do this. Why?
This doesn’t make sense. No. I shake him. Screaming, why won’t he get up? I love you, I say.
You mean everything to me, I scream. He’s not moving. Why would he do this? We love each o
ther. That bastard. That idiot. He’s so selfish. I did everything for him. Now what? What am I s
upposed to do with this trash of my life? This is all his fault. I’m so scared. If only he hadn’t be
een so stupid. In all of this, I realize the barrel is still warm on my temple and here’s me, cold.

..

Description
Full-text is as follows:

Here’s Thursday- well, I think that it’s a Thursday. It may actually be Wednesday or a Friday,I
really can’t keep track of the days anymore. Not that I need to. Not that I care to. Anyway, on
that choice day I woke up again. I never fail to surprise myself. I suppose that’s one thing that
almost keeps me sane during the dry hours of sobriety. Rolling overm there’s a small puddle of
vomit next to my mattress on the stained hardwood floor. I must’ve fallen asleep in my dealer’
s house again. He’s so hospitable as long as he gets what he wants from me. That doesn’t bot
her me, anything for a fix, I say. Bile and partially dissolved pills. That’s it. I guess I never tho
ught about it before, but when everything your body takes in tastes worse than your own stom
ach acid, throwing up is almost pleasant. Fingers shaking, I fumble the pills into my mouth. Ho
pefully they’ll still do whatever it was I wanted them to do last night. Even a little buzz would
be appreciated right now. Now comes getting up. If I remember right. If I remember anything.
I push myself up and my hands start shaking. The shaking moves up until i can’t support mys
elf with my arms anymore and I flip over onto my back. Cold sweat makes my damp tanktop s
tick to my torso. I kick my legs out and tip myself up onto my butt. Swinging my legs over the
side of the mattress makes me dizzy. Barely missed the vomit. It takes almost five minutes to
gather the energy and to stop myself shaking long enough to stand up. Standing, I now reme
mber, isn’t so easy anymore. Wobbling steps are carrying me to the bathroom very slowly, and
it’s about halfway there that the smell hits me. Nothing, I’m assuming. Probably just my vomit,
if it was even mine. In the bathroom I take my morning piss. That’s pretty much the only part
of me that’s remained regular over the past few years. Well, it’s regular as long as I wake up,
of course. I try to flush the toilet. It’s not working again. Assuming it ever did, that is. The cra
cked mirror on the other side of the bathroom should be a lot less appealing than it is. I haven
‘t worn make-up in a few weeks or so, and with the water out, I can’t really shower either. But
he says I’m beautiful. He means it, right? Why would he lie? He loves me more than anything.
he says. Even more than her, he says. My bones really stick out. Am I too skinny? Does that m
ean I’m ugly? Was he lying to me? I have disgusting bags under my bloodshot eyes. How c
ould he love that? He must have been lying. He must hate me. I can’t believe he’d do somethi
ng like that to me. That scumbag. That worthless asshole. If he were here- oh, the things I’d s
ay to him. Look at me, look at this disgusting reflection in this disgusting bathroom in this disg
usting house in this digusting life. I don’t even remember what color the walls used to be, the
y’re so stained with smoke and bile and blood and piss and I don’t remember what else. My fe
et are covered in scars from stepping on broken booze bottles and shattered lightbulbs. What i
s that terrible smell? It’s something new. I don’t know. Whatever it is, that idiot had better dea
l with it. I’m not his goddamn maid and I won’t clean up his crap anymore. He won’t even clea
n this- whatever this is- off of the mirror. It’s sick and it makes my face look like some smudge.
Some pathetic and hideous stain. Or maybe the mirror actually is just reflecting what it sees. W
hat everyone else sees. What is. Enough of this. I need to know what the hell that smell is. L
eaving the bathroom, the smell gets worse and I remember how I don’t remember how to wal
k without concentrating on it. The living room is trashed, as usual. If only that pig would just c
lean up after himself. Oh, great, there she is, passed out on the couch again with her tongue h
anging out of her mouth like some kind of sick junkie. No one, not even her, looks beautiful wi
dried spit and bile and some kind of foam rimming their mouth and streaking their chin. But he
said I did. Is that how I look? That bastard told me I’m beautiful. He told me he loved me. Tha
t bastard. This is all his fault. His fault, just like the hole in my new chair that I stole from the r
escue mission. If he didn’t have to invite so many idiots, so many wastes of human flesh into t
his house, that crap wouldn’t happen. The knife’s still on the ground. I doubt he even whiped t
he blood off of it before he drew lines last night. Or last week. Whenever. The farther back into
the house I go, the worse this smell gets. I wonder if he had sex with her last night. I bet he d
id, that disgusting pig. That sick bastard. I never loved him, and never will. Once I find him, I’m
going to tell him. I’m going to tell him that I’m leaving. I’m moving out, and I’ll go and make s
omething og my life. I’ll go and become an actress and move to Hollywood. That’ll show him a
nd her. They’ll be so mad and everyone will love me. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier.
My family will talk to me again, and everyone will want to know me. I can’t believe how much
crap is mashed into this carpet. Food and glass stuff. Here’s the pervert’s room, with his stupid
beer poster on his door. What an idiot. Knocking on the door, the smell is even worse. I bet he
crapped his own pants or something. What an idiot junkie. He better open this door. Alright, if
he won’t, I will. The doorknob is greasy and loose. Dammit, he must have the deadbolt locked.
I pound on the door, and he doesn’t answer. Why is he ignoring me? I pound on the door som
e more, and finally the hunges just break and the door swings down and to the side. The smel
l multiplies by something like a hundred as I step in his room. He’s such a slob. Even in his ow
n room. The way it looks is there’s clothes and rags and belts and baggies on the floor all arou
nd his room. One of the baggies is ripped open and there’s some white powder mixing in with
this hideous orange shag carpet. I knew he was holding out on me. I knew he hadn’t come ho
me empty last night. That liar. That scumbag. So he’s lying face down on his bed with some pi
llow over his head. There’s some dark crap crusted on his pillowcase. Calling to him doesn’t do
any good. Not that I’m used to him listening to me. I walk over and nudge him with my foot. S
till no response. He’s probably too hung over to hear me for feel anything. When I try, the pillow
w doesn’t pull off very easily. Like it’s stuck to someting. Finally it comes off and it comes off w
ith red chunks of things on it and there’s a hole in the back of his head and there’s his gun nex
t to him. Oh God. No. Not him. I love him. He’s so nice. He can’t be dead. I can’t do this. Why?
This doesn’t make sense. No. I shake him. Screaming, why won’t he get up? I love you, I say.
You mean everything to me, I scream. He’s not moving. Why would he do this? We love each o
ther. That bastard. That idiot. He’s so selfish. I did everything for him. Now what? What am I s
upposed to do with this trash of my life? This is all his fault. I’m so scared. If only he hadn’t be
een so stupid. In all of this, I realize the barrel is still warm on my temple and here’s me, cold.

..