The bedroom reeks of sweat and something worse. Fear, maybe. Or just the stale air of another wasted night. Hank rolls over, gasping, having just escaped the jungle where trees drip blood and the dead scream louder than the living.
He rubs his face hard like he could scrape the nightmare off his skin. But it sticks to him, like the smell of piss in a dirty stadium bathroom.
3:13 a.m. The red numbers stare him down.
Hank will be at the factory in a few hours, operating a machine that will rhythmically drown out his thoughts through sheer repetitiveness. But for now, he is fighting against an unholy silence that grips your insides and twists.
His wife is softly snoring in the other room, out like a rock. Sturdy, dependable, like the old fridge humming in the kitchen. Hank hates how easy sleep comes to her and how she can switch it off like flipping a light switch.
He stumbles to the bathroom, mumbling to himself.
The piss comes slow, his prostate playing games again, making Hank wait. He leans into the cold wall tile, feeling the weight of everything—the years, the fights, the nothing. In the mirror, his eyes look like they belong to someone else–someone who has been through the wringer and failed to come out clean.
He shuffles back to bed and sits on the edge like a man trying to decide if he is worth the goddammed effort. The mattress sags beneath him, tired as he is. Sleep for another half-hour? Or drag his sorry ass into the day?
The glass on the nightstand is mocking him. He picks it up. Cheap shit, but it burns good. He takes a swig, the warmth crawling down his throat like an old friend. The jungle fades. The bourbon does its job, replacing one ache with another.
His wife stirs, and Hank wonders, how did it come to this–a small bed in a room cluttered with worthless shit, haunted by empty, broken bottles and busted dreams?”
“Fuck it,” Hank mutters. Sleep is not coming back this morning.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
Leave a comment