Sweet Dreams

Fitful sleep isn't really sleep. If you are intoxicated and go to sleep, its not really sleep either...its just your body shutting down.

Toss, turn.

Her eyes open. She is wide awake in an instant and still drunk. Mouth dry, head spinning. Her jaw hurts bad. He beat her again. Flashes of memory summarize the night before.

He always does this when they drink. He throws his ridiculous infant tantrums. He beats her, then begs forgiveness. He loves her, can't live without her...Right, he just has a fucking weird way of expressing it.

Klonopin. Empty bottle by the bed...Fuck, it's 4 in the afternoon? She's fucked. Another "no show" at her shitty waitress joke of a job. Not that she could have "shown" like this. She is sore from his fists pounding her body.

Speaking of lover boy, she can feel him in bed next to her. Gawd...she doesn't dare wake him after such a night. He'll either want to fight or fuck and neither sounds good to her. She has to, she has to piss...she also has some oxys stashed that will dull the pain.

She moves the blanket so carefully and slowly. Holy shit...her hand is caked with blood. All caution is out the window, she searches her sturdy body for lacerations. Nothing, her nose isn't broken either.

She notices loverboy, the man who would perish without her.

His throat is slit. Ear to fucking ear.

She should be panicking but she is not. With a sigh she goes and gets the stashed oxys...crushes one, cuts lines and snorts away. She takes a piss and puts on a Jethro Tull record. She makes as much noise as she wants. She takes a couple shots of whiskey and lays down on the couch, curling up in an afghan that loverboy hated. She settles into the deepest sleep she's known in 3 years...She is glad she remembers nothing.