A piercing light splits apart the top of his skull and he is sucked out of the deep dark pool of unconsciousness into a screaming world. The creaking fan above him is the only thing he can recognise and tracing it's jittering rotations with his bloodshot eyes starts to make him sick so he closes them and fumbles around for whatever is screaming. An alarm. He bashes his hand around until it hits home and the blaring stops.
Over the course of thirty minutes he drags himself to his feet. His head feels like an axe has cleft through the bone and someone has gone into his brains with a hand blender. His pants are soiled but they're the cleanest of the three he has so he leaves them in the sink under a running tap. There's fresh vomit on his shirt so he has to dig out one covered in old, dried vomit from the reeking pile of cloth in one corner of the room.
Each movement sloshes around the contents of his guts and it feels like there's a heavy dark liquid swirling around his brain. Empty bottles scatter across the mouldy carpet as he drags on his damp trousers and crocodile boots. He avoids the mirror. He can't see the man in there or that'll do him in for good.
He staggers through the front door and almost falls down the stairs. Other people in the apartments know to keep a wide berth from in the mornings, and he suspects they outright hide from him when he gets back at night. But he's completely blackout by that point, so he can never recall. In fact, he can't remember the last time he was cogent enough to recall coming home. Been some months.
He puts his pistol in its holster, slings his badge over his neck, and gets into his patrol car. There's a bit of undrunk coffee at the bottom of an old paper cup that's a day cold. He swallows it down, winces, and turns the engine over. Just another day on the job.
Paddy Dobson
23rd September 2022