The Hangover

An insignificant cup sat on a pretty standard table. The glass reflects very little in the dim light. The reflection gives no hint of where it was or why it's there. Even the slighty dried substance at the bottom of the glass, orange in colour, is meaningless. In fact is was nothing extraordinary about the glass at all. The only thing that really defines it is that it is in Marcus' field of view. He stares at the glass for a good minute before shaking himself out of the trance. It was not anything specific about the glass that had kept him transfixed but for its existence. For one thing Marcus doesn't own any glasses of that particular shape or size. This in itself was cause for much concern as it was, most definitely, sitting on his desk which as far as he was concerned was still within his apartment. Even so there was a much more worrying aspect about this glass. The slightly smudged faint red lipstick on the rim hinted very directly to something that he was unwilling to accept at this particular moment.

A quiet sound from the back of the apartment, a shuffle, the repositioning of bed sheets, confirmed his suspicions. Marcus' mind was just now beginning to pick up speed. He tried to think back to the last solid memory but could not recall one many since his wife had left over a month ago. He recalled standing in the doorway watching her, suitcase in hand, walking towards the car. He hadn't turned to the bottle immediately but had instead gone about making sure her usual routine was kept in tact. Her rituals became his by the simple reasoning that it kept him grounded in reality. When he woke up he made the bed, he cleaned the bathroom after showering even picking hair out of the drain. He'd made breakfast the way she did always making enough for two people. The cat was fed and let out on time. To all outward appearances everything continued to run as normal. It had hardly lasted a week.

By the 11th day breakfast was beans, on toast if he had remembered or bothered to get bread, and, on the 11th night, he opened the first bottle of wine. Her rituals began to fade from his routine as they were overcome by his bleakness. One day it was one bottle of wine at night and by the end of the second week he had been opening bottles as early as midday. He'd found one incentive to be positive. A mere two weeks had passed and he had fallen this far and he considered this to be as far as one could fall. Working on the assumption that life flowed in waves where one week you were high and the other could be low he had assumed that now he had reached the low he would begin to rise again.

This was where the memories started to get really blurry. He could remember sitting in the sofa in his usual spot. You could tell it was his, a slight depression had formed in the seat. If anyone else had sat there they would have felt uncomfortable like they didn't quite belong. As if they were sitting in someone else’s coffin. For Marcus the depression felt comfortable like a well worn sock. It fitted him and only him. He remembers sitting in the sofa at this particular time as it was when he came to a decision. It was time to reverse the low and start a climb to glory. This, he knew, could only be achieved by leaving the comfort of his sofa and going out. So loaded up in his best suit and probably the best part of a bottle of wine too many he headed out to town.

At the age of twenty we have certain restrictions on our habits. We can barely afford the bus so a night out is a considered act. We go with the people we like, to a place we enjoy and have a good time. The result being that 3 nights a week is the maximum and 2 days in bed a required minimum. At 34 Marcus had different limits. Money was not an object and time was something he had a serious amount of and so the spiral continued.

In bed... or at least asleep by 7 or 8am allowing him to wake up at 5 and ready to start all over again. Flashes of memories leaked into his head now. A base line that had adjusted the rhythem of his heart. Flashing lights giving glimpses of people moving to the music. Each memory blurred from one to the next all basically the same. Someone talking but saying nothing, flashing lights animating them. A bar man yelling soundlessly, flashing lights, the baseline vibrating his whole body.

He had been with people but who they were or why he had been with them he would never know. Faces flash through but still nothing definite.

He looks to the door behind him. It's still dark in the room but he can make out some noises and cringes slightly as a pulse of pain passes through his head. He closes his eyes and reaches for the asprin. Cringing again as he dry swallows them. “No wonder I carried on drinking” the thought tickles him and he cringes again.

Trying to unwind the memories of the last drunken month he forces his brain on. Sitting on a kerb, head between his knees watching water trickle into a drain. Was that last night? Last week? It's coming together slowly but the pace is increasing and finally he sees her. Yes, he is certain. It's her hair that triggers the memory. Long and wavy reaching well below her shoulders, how could he have forgotten? It was just like his wife's. Even down to the dark highlights running through the blonde curls. Guilt surges through him.

He remembers dancing with her. There was an air of familiarity, it was comfortable and easy dancing. He can feel her hips in his hands a light touch swaying in time with the music and in time with him. Thinking again of his wife he looks to the calendar and sees the date she left marked so thoughtfully with a cross. He ticks his eyes over the days and weeks, counting. “six” he thinks aloud as his eye passes over today’s date. “6 weeks” he slumps as his eyes move further along the calendar. Another cross appears in just 10 days time.

“I can fix this” the thought lightens him slightly as he looks around the apartment. It's a mess but not a disaster. Nothing is broken. He looks back at the glass, glares at it. It will have to go. He is making mental notes now, what belongs where and what needs to be cleaned. A thought passes through his mind about the cat but is pushed out by the thought that cats go missing all the time. A slight cough from the bedroom finally pulls him back to more immediate concerns.

He puts a picture of his wife in his mind. It gives him resolve. He will fix this for her, she will never know of the betrayal because he loves her too much. He wont let her know that pain. He stands up and moves towards the bedroom. He can smell the musty darkness as he approaches and vaguely hopes the smell doesn't linger too long daily reminding him of his guilt. As he enters the room the shape on the bed stirs and he can just make out her hair flowing over the pillow. She mumbles something, it sounds like his name but it is half buried in sleep. He pauses and waits just long enough for her to lift herself up a bit and ask again “Marcus?” clearer now and definitely his name. Somehow it makes it worse.

He breathes deep and closes his eyes. A moment later he finds the strength and reaches for the light switch.