Whiskey blindness, can’t you see? You can’t see. With your eyes or anything else. But your body seems to have a plan of action. You crawl through the ethyl fog. It all reduces down to ethyl in the end. That’s why, despite the seemingly repulsive nature of a Listerine chug, people continue to do it, because of the ethyl, the alcohol. Your clothes are soaked and heavy from the forceful evacuations you didn’t care to run to the bathroom to deposit, though do you really care? You are on a mission, though what for is just out of grasp, but you’ll know it when you see it. The wooden floors squeak as your skin skids across them. You feel a splinter sneak its way in, so what. It’s a scratch.

You try and pull your arm up to check the damage but you’re hooked. You panic a little bit. You slide your arm forward a bit to see if the flesh will come loose. “Fuck FUCK FUUUCK!” your scream sounds like a loud gargle though there’s no one around to startle, or to get help. You went against the grain, the same way you’d been stomach shuffling when you got skewered. Your arm still won’t come up off of the newly stained Cherrywood floors. You start to panic a little bit more.

Your mind’s eye is being barraged by erratic flashes of blinding red and white lights, though it’s not rose-tinted lenses this time. Blood has started to form around your arm. You start to wonder if maybe blood cells have individual consciousness on any sort of level but then another pronounced pulse of blood draining pain pangs through your veins and you come right back to the wet floor. Whiskey makes you thirsty, makes you drunk, makes your blood thin, and whiskey makes you luck. Some old crone told you that at the bar when she took you by one shoulder and started licking your neck above the opposite, trying to get you home with her for some home-wrecking sex. Along with the rest of her little pearl of wisdom, you figure, luck is right, but she never specified the type. But as far as whiskey goes, you think, those are all undeniable fact. You raise your head and look behind you, looking at the peephole on the door that’s never locked, wishing anyone would come up and look through the peephole at you.

Pulse. You know.. you need.. get up.. the ground… but you’re having a hard time even riding the struggle bus right now. Each predictable pulse drains another pump of blood that is supposed to stay within the circuit. The Impaler, the mystery poker, retains its stance as the reason for the flood, and acts as a magnet for the blood that is seeping out en route from your lungs. You address the entirety of the empty space. “Oh, what fun….” Sarcasm always came easy to you, but especially in times like this, times when it’s the last thing to do, it fights harder than ever to get through and out of you. You wonder If I am sarcastic to myself, do I feel bad because I got picked on or because I am a dick?

“Alright, well, maybe if I slide it the other way…” you say sheepishly to the empty room. Your sweat glands are starting to go into overdrive, the ones on your forehead send the droplets down into the deep creases of your forehead where they meet in the middle to join hands and leap off of your face to splash together in the growing concoction of biological sludge- blood, shit, piss, and now sweat have worked together to create a mudpie in your essence. You look down pensively for a moment and wonder as to the alcohol content of your secretions. A few saline beads sneak their way out from the cuff of your shirt and run down your arm. You catch the reflection of the dust-coated lamp’s muffled glare on a singular drop. “Three… Two… One…” Your teeth clench at one and your pursed lips follow. A light tug from your arm and a light tug inside of your arm and another wild explosion in your mind beckons your subconscious reflexes to kick in and stop your silly operation. You look around with your seeking eyes but there’s nobody there to nobody’s surprise. “Shiiiiiiiiit…” You drag out the vowel, but your arm is still stuck.

You can’t get up, you can hardly stand, splinter thing or not. Your phone is in your car, though you chuckle at the notion of even having it. You can’t afford an ambulance and the dispatchers at 9-1-1 are probably the only people that would accept your call. Nobody else will, because you’ve already tried.

Suddenly you feel unrecognizably sober and it’s not absolutely horrible. Yet. The rushing blood slows to a steady glug glug as pressure and pulse drop to a more manageable level. New eyes are analyzing and interpreting an entirely new environment; you feel free and unrefined until a sharp tug reminds you of your bind. Hardly a measurable amount of The Object came out, however your flesh yearns, burns… to be refilled. The previously occupied space feels wrong, empty, cavernous; you spiral back into panic mode. The clarity you had found is now gone.

Frantic, your eyes whip and roll looking for some sort of goal, some sort of plan of action, while your mind is too worked up to process anything in the field of vision. Blood red swirls surrounding the faces of the boys and girls, the men and the women, some unknown, some friends, but mostly all people with whom you’d fucked over and they left you for dead. Circles and circles, your eyes and your mind rotate around the room, as though somebody would be there with an answer for you. The blur of the confusion and the return of the pulsing sensations in your arm and your neck send you straight back into your head. The dream never ends.