The Harsh Reality of Daylight

When I woke up everything was different. I felt different, my room somehow looked different. Everything had changed. I didn’t like change. It always made me feel uneasy. He’d gone, taken all his stuff and gone. I wasn’t sure whether this was permanent this time or just another fight that had gone terribly wrong and gotten extremely out of hand. Ouch! My head throbbed. I had the taste of stale, red wine in the pack of my pallet. I looked to the left of me and to see the empty wine bottles and glasses on my bedside table. His glass was stood tall almost perfect, only with a slight red ring around the very bottom. My glass, standing next to his, was cracked. Lipstick marks stained the brim and it was still half full.

Alcohol had become something of a mask for me. A mask for my emotions, as in whenever I started to feel any, I drank them away. This had become a frequent occurrence when arguing with him – which had also become a frequent occurrence. It’s not that I enjoyed it as such, but couldn’t ignore the adrenaline that pumped through my blood when I raised my voice or the feeling of my heart racing when I got a reaction from him. Passion! That’s what it was. We had passion, chemistry. At least that was what I told myself and how I justified and explained the arguments.

I eventually tore my head from my pillow and attempted to place my feet on the unstable ground beneath me. I reached for my phone to dial his number, but thought better of it. Was there any point? What was there to say? What can I say? I was tired of this. Tired of this dead weight I had been carrying around. Anxiety constantly festered in the pit of my stomach, waiting to erupt, causing my heart to leap into my mouth. Before I even knew what I was doing, the phone was ringing in my ear whilst I waited to hear his voice on the other end. “Hello?” Silence. “Are you there?” “Yes, I’m here” He replied, exasperatedly.