He fumbled for his keys. He had made a specific point of placing them definitely on his person. He thought with an awful honest plunge that he had lost them again. He paused at the door of the bungalow. All was silent. The sky was empty. A light moved only. In his stupor such moments gave him great pause. He teetered absently,the silence around him. It was comforting and he relished it. All worry faded and he forgot about his keys. He felt calmness. A calmness that he could never express to another. It would be beyond him, even sober, to express. It was childlike in many ways, like being safe and sound in the back of a family car.But he could only imagine such things. His own father had left him; his mother had placed him in many institutions over the years. He had a brother somewhere.Mumbling these useless memories he automatically grasped his keys and went inside. Above, the light had moved on and disappeared.
When he came to,for he always came to, he never woke up, the temporary feeling of despair erupted upon his being, that he had done it again, that he drank, that he had no idea what day it was. That he was clothed and that he had pissed himself. At such times he was glad to be alone. It was one of the reasons why he was. The opening of his eyes was a rip of light into his dumbfounded world, the great challenge, the first step into another day. Opening his eyes. After this leap,his head responded, the awful bitter cruel thump at the very centre of his brain, a hot needle, then cold, spasming in all directions. It was dehydration of course. The brain itself minutely shrunken, causing pain between matter and skull. He didn’t know this. He didn’t know the pragmatisms of his ailment any more certainly than the reason why he even drank. He was primordial and sent his hand outwards to grasp something, phone, bottle. There was some left. He never really planned for there to be some left for the morning. It was another primordial reaction, a ground in function like needing warmth and shelter. He didn’t even look at the bottle, nor did he relish particularly the taste of the cider that passed over his awful tongue. Just that hit. Immediate. The alcohol from the day before fired up by more. The flow dwindled to a trickle. He placed his tongue into the bottle, getting every last drop. All this was before he had sat up. The booze began to ease the lead of his limbs and he raised himself slowly onto his elbows. The room looked grim. It looked unfinished. It sat there, utterly mute, with its piles of clothes, ashtrays empty cans and wine bottles like the writing on the wall. It was death to look at. This room, its squalor, was like inhabiting death. He didn’t think of it like this at the time of the day. Those revelations always came later. When he had once tried to be profound, when he had been given an insight briefly, he had scrawled on a bench in the garden, ‘welcome to the nightmare of life’.These progressions took time and he was in the process of medicating at this point. Sitting up changed everything. The world went from side to side a little. He turned his head upon its aching neck and saw the time. 07:23. But he was awake now. He never slept for more than a couple of hours.
To his utter surprise he saw an unopened bottle of white wine. He had planned ahead after all, just like the keys. He tumbled forward, arms on wet jean legs and breathed deeply, head down. He dozed for a quarter of an hour, only being snapped awake by his body nearly giving into his fatigue, and then he was set again on his purpose. The wine was all he cared about, all he wanted. When he placed his hand around its neck, the smooth lines of the glass seemed other worldly,greatly comforting and for a moment he paused to appreciate the form. The bottle was perfect, the pale yellow liquid within gently sparkled in a sunbeam.He click, click, clicked the lid off and pursed his lips over the neck. It feltl ike ambrosia, hitting his filthy palette and striking such pleasure that he groaned as it pumped, mechanically, down his throat. He didn’t come up for air. His first bottle of the day was finished at 07:30. It didn’t touch the sides. After the hits of the slugs died down, the wine shifted its gears on him, cohearsing the alcohol of the night before and creating an effect akin to being stoned. He began to wake up. He began to feel good. He stood up straight with a click here and there. Optimism and good feeling raced over his senses. He would clean up today. He wouldn’t need another, he felt fine. Unsteady on his feet but confident, he went to the bathroom to sort out the soiled clothes. The sun continued to shine in. The room seemed to breathe with him. This room was his. He had confidence. He had a whole world.
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