The Thin White Line

Matt opened his eyes. The light sent spears of pain into his brain. Without moving his head, he looked left and right. Thank God! He was in bed, at home, though he had no idea how he’d got there, and though every inch of his body ached, he had presumably arrived in one piece.

Still fully dressed, he got up, the room tilted and he lurched to the bathroom and vomited. He splashed cold water on his face and looked in the mirror. Blood! On his cheeks, hands and in the sink. The wound from two nights ago when he’d sliced his palm on the wire fence had been ripped open. It was on his shirt as well. He stripped and stepped into the shower.

As he scrubbed the acrid sweat from his body with near scalding water he tried to piece together the events of the night. After Binta’s call, he’d had another margarita, or was it two? He remembered being chatted up by a full-figured woman, with most of it hanging out, who wanted him to dance. Was it her idea or his to switch to tequila shooters? He’d left the bar thinking he had plenty of time to get to Binta’s but the three-block walk turned out to be a kaleidoscope of lights and faces. He’d almost arrived when his stomach convulsed. Stumbling into some shrubbery he puked until all that was left was yellow bile. The rest of the night was blank until he woke up in bed. Hopefully, he’d remember more when he was completely sober.

The shower took his hangover from terminal to critical. By the time he’d shaved and dressed in clean clothes, he’d moved from intensive care to a step-down unit. Two extra-strength painkillers and a couple of slugs of Pepto created a ceasefire between his head and stomach further improving his chances of survival, but not his memory.