Hangover

The alarm sounded. With trembly fingers he rubbed the crust of sleep away from his greasy, pale lids and slowly peeled opened his eyes like two, reluctant Christmas tangerines with a small whimper. There was a slow, fat, slime shielded slug in his mouth that tasted like it had been exploring the deepest crevices of the bathroom floor since he passed out. The room fell into focus. A sharp stab of pain through the eyes looking at the light rose to an exquisite, shimmering orchestral crescendo of white noise and pain that washed round the swirling plughole in his head. His heart hammered viscous red blood round his veins, every thump a white flash of pain deep in his eyeballs that radiated in waves through every shred of his being. He felt shrivelled inside, arid, demi-sec.

Demi-sec? A flashback to necking a pint of sweet white wine spritzer. Why did that seem like a good idea? His stomach roiled at the thought. His nose started to pick up his funky effluvia. A solid heart note of stale sweat with base notes of slopped, stale beer, heady high notes of other people’s cigarette smoke and smeared burger sauce. Buffetting swells of bilious abhorrence rose from his stomach.

Corvine thoughts swooped in from left and right. A heavy feeling of dread settled on his shoulders. He resolved to close his eyes and never do anything as foolish as opening them for the foreseeable future.

Today was going to be a long day.

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