tears away, but they kept falling.
Stupid.
Useless.
The words echoed inside my head, their ripples setting off a chain reaction.
Unconnected images and emotions exploded in my mind’s eye like a camera’s flash.
A face. Terror.
A voice. Fury.
Blood. Pain.
Laughter.
Dull walls decorated with water stains. Fear.
Shame. Resignation.
Hollowness. Nausea.
They all converged into a cyclonic storm that blasted through the hastily erected wall I used to make it home. I clasped my spinning head in my hands and dragged my fingers through my hair. The sharp tugs on the matted snarls pulled me out of the destructive spiral waiting to suck me down.
Come on, Cyn. Hold it together.
Forcing my feet to move, I headed to the kitchen. I needed something to drink. My mouth was dry, my stomach pitching. By rote, I grabbed a glass, and
then stood there.
Water wasn’t going to cut it.
I opened the cupboard above the stove. A bottle of whiskey with a few
inches left stared back. Jameson in hand, I considered the glass I held, then the
bottle. Screw it.
I left the glass on the counter and brought the bottle to my mouth. The whiskey burned its way down my throat and eventually chased away the chill.
Finally, my teeth stopped rattling against the glass edge. I lowered the bottle and
held it in both hands and sucked in deep breaths. I swiped the back of my hand
over my sore lips and took another drink. I needed a shower. Then, maybe I could deal with…I let the thought trail off, too scared to follow it through.
Shower, first. Then assess the damage.
Unwilling to give up my alcoholic teddy bear, I took it with me to the guest
room. The curtains were still drawn, keeping the sunlight out. I moved across the
floor to the bathroom. I didn’t bother with the light switch. Still holding the bottle, I turned the shower as hot as it could go with one hand. For a moment I
considered setting the whiskey on the counter, but my fingers wouldn’t loosen.
Stripping one-handed was not graceful or quick. I got my T-shirt off and more signs that things had gotten real fucking ugly at some point were revealed.
Bruises in various shades of green, blue, and purple decorated my ribs and stomach. Some wound around to my back. Most were clustered in mid-body and
the tight band around my chest loosened a notch.
I took another drink and shucked my pants. An ugly bruise covered my left
thigh, a visible explanation for my re-emerging limp. The only other damage was my skinned knees. Finally naked, I kicked my grungy clothes into the corner, and went to take one last fortifying drink, but came up empty. I set the now empty bottle on the counter’s edge and stepped into the steamy enclosure.
Between the heat and the alcohol, my head was encased in fluffiness. I tried to
enjoy it, but the moment you try to become numb, you stop.
I stood there as hot water sluiced over me, my back to the spray, arms braced
on the wall in front of me, and my head hanging down. At my feet swirled a murky combination of water, blood, and dirt. Stings made themselves known as
the hot water hit the numerous scrapes. I groaned softly as tense muscles slowly
uncurled. I tilted my head back, letting the water wash over my hair and face.
