Whiskey Alter

He came to, face-down in the alley, a thick layer of vomit glued to his cheek. The world spun around him like some sick, twisted joke. His head pounded with a hangover so vicious it felt like someone had taken a bat to his skull.

He coughed, gagging as the taste of bile hit the back of his throat, the stink of his piss clinging to his pants. His ribs were on fire–felt like they had been kicked in–probably had been.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, struggling to roll over, his body shot.

His wallet was gone. His smokes were gone. Hell, whoever had rolled him had left him with nothing but the piss-stained clothes on his back.

“You there, God? You miserable son of a bitch,” he croaked, spitting blood onto the concrete. “Bet you got a front row seat to this shitshow, didn’t you? Laughing your holy ass off.”

He propped himself up on his elbows, his body screaming in protest. His lip split, nose bloody. They had worked him over. Real thorough. Some asshole probably got a nice laugh out of kicking the life out of a drunk in a back alley.

“Is this what you wanted, huh?” he spat, wiping his face with a sleeve already covered in grime. “Me, choking on my puke while some prick walks off with my last twenty bucks?”

He finally sat up, leaning against the cold, unforgiving wall of the alley. The sun had not even bothered to rise yet, but there was just enough light creeping in to make the place look even more like a dump. Broken bottles, crumpled newspapers, and him—the human equivalent of garbage, left to rot.

“You gotta be some kinda sick bastard,” he muttered, cradling his ribs as he struggled to stand. His legs wobbled, almost giving out, but he was not about to lay back down in that mess. Not yet. “You like this, don’t you?” he growled, stumbling toward the alley exit. “Watching me crawl around like a goddamn rat. Is this your idea of fun, you twisted fuck?”

Every step felt like someone was driving nails into his sides, but he kept moving. He had to. Staying in that alley felt like admitting he was nothing like he had always been nothing.

“You don’t do shit for me, you never have,” he hissed, his breath ragged as he made his way into the street.

The early morning was dead quiet, just the occasional car rolling by, the world moving on without him. It didn’t matter. Nobody gave a damn about a drunk bleeding in the gutter.

“Where the fuck were you last night, huh? While they were kicking the shit outta me, where were you?” He shouted at the sky, his voice cracking. “You just sitting up there, jerking off while I get my teeth kicked in?”

A couple of early risers glanced his way, then quickly turned their heads, pretending not to see. He was not surprised. He would avoid himself, too.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he muttered, “look away. Don’t wanna dirty your eyes with the likes of me.”

He stopped, bracing himself against a light pole, his legs ready to buckle. His chest felt like it was on fire, and the hangover wasn’t letting up. It was the kind that made you want to tear your skull open just to let the pain out.

“You get off on this, don’t you?” he growled, his voice rough, raw. “Kicking a man when he’s down. That’s your thing, isn’t it? Make us suffer, and then sit back and watch. Real funny, you prick.”

He forced himself back upright, every bone in his body aching. His ribs throbbed with each shallow breath. He’d probably be pissing blood later, but that was a problem for the future. Right now, he needed a drink.

“You set me up, didn’t you?” he continued, staggering forward, his voice a low snarl. “Born into this shit, and you’ve been watching me drown in it ever since. You never gave me a chance. Not one. And I’m supposed to pray to you? Beg you for mercy? Fuck you.”

He spat again, tasting blood.

“Mercy’s for suckers. You’re just up there, laughing, waiting to see how long it takes for me to finally go under. And the worst part? I keep talking to you like you’re gonna answer. Like you give a shit.”

The streets were coming alive now, people heading to work, eyes straight ahead, never straying toward the wreckage on the sidewalk. He kept moving, his legs barely carrying him, but he was used to it by now. He knew how to shuffle along, battered and beaten, just another piece of human debris.

“I shoulda known better,” he muttered, his voice thick. “Should have known from the start. You don’t save people like me. You just watch us burn out, laugh while we go down in flames.”

He leaned against a storefront window, catching his breath, looking at his reflection. What a joke. Bloody, bruised, the shadow of a man. He looked like something that crawled out from under a rock. But that was fitting, wasn’t it? Just another one of God’s little fuck-ups, crawling through the dirt.

“You wanna see how far I can fall?” he whispered, glaring at the sky. “I’ll give you a show, you bastard. I’ll keep dragging myself through this hell you call life, and I’ll do it with a middle finger in the air. You wanna see me break? Not yet, you motherfucker. Not yet.”

He pushed off the window, forcing his legs to move again, even though each step felt like it might be the last.

“I’ll be back tonight,” he growled. “Bottle in hand, head full of nothing, and I’ll still be here, cursing your name. You won’t get rid of me that easy.”

He turned the corner, disappearing into the crowd, just another broken man stumbling through the city. And God? He wasn’t saying a damn thing.