Slow Burn
"Would you wake the fuck up already?"
The question was shouted in my ear, sending a searing pain through my head. I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut tight against the glaring light of the sun. I ached all over and my stomach was rolling. I was either ridiculously hung over or I was dying. I almost hoped for the latter.
"Get the fuck out of my bed, faggot. My girlfriend's going to be home soon."
That prompted me to open one eye. An unfamiliar guy was rushing around an unfamiliar bedroom, a furious look on his face. Who the hell?
I pushed myself up, immediately regretting the decision. The strange room spun around, my brains feeling like they were going to ooze out of my skull via my eye sockets. And fuck, my ass hurt. I struggled to remember what happened the night before, but only bits and pieces were coming into half focus, disjointed and fuzzy. A cute bartender serving me drinks, then offering me a ride home. Kissing him. Letting him pull my clothes off. Letting him fuck me. Stinging pain from an absence of lube. Burning humiliation from his harsh dirty talk.
"Like that, fag?" he'd said, his words the only clear memory of the previous twelve hours. "I bet you love having my fat cock inside you, queer."
I was going to be sick.
I fell from the bed, stumbling into the bathroom, thankful as all hell he'd left the seat up. I collapsed against the toilet, throwing up everything I'd consumed in the last day. When the heaving stopped, I reached up to flush, but couldn't bring myself to move any more than that.
The nameless guy came in with my clothes, tossing them in a heap at my feet. "Jesus, get dressed, you look like shit. Then get the fuck out of my house."
I grabbed my jeans, swallowing hard against the nausea fighting back up into my esophagus. I wriggled into the pants, clumsily since I didn't feel up to standing just yet, and tried desperately to get my brain to work. Cab. I'd need a cab; he drove me here. I'd need cab fare...I checked my pockets--nothing.
"Where's my wallet?" I croaked out, my voice weak.
"How the fuck should I know?" He demands, kicking my shoes at me. "Just fucking get moving."
"How am I supposed to get home, you drove last night?"
He rakes a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes as he reaches into his wallet, throwing a bill at my feet with my shirt and shoes. "Jesus Christ, here's a fucking twenty. Just Get. Out."
I forced myself up from the floor, wishing I had a toothbrush with me. As I pulled my shirt on, he led me roughly towards the door, slamming it behind me, without so much as a goodbye or thanks for a nice evening. I stumbled half a block down the road, grateful for a bus stop with a shelter and an empty bench. I collapsed on the seat, brushing my hair back from my face, closing my eyes in hopes of easing the throbbing ache in my head. I ran my tongue over my dried, cracked lips, surprised to taste a hint of saline, and for the first time I realized there were tears streaming down my cheeks. I wondered if I'd been crying while in the nameless bartender's house. If so, no wonder he'd thrown me out.
I wrinkled my nose at the foul taste in my mouth, then again when I glanced at the crumpled twenty-dollar bill in my hand. It didn't feel like he'd given me the money so I could get a ride home. It felt like a payment. Twenty fucking dollars, like a Goddamned cheap, worthless whore.
Worthless.
That one word had haunted me for weeks, and now it had two more to join it.
Faggot.
Queer.
The three insults echoed, over and over again, until I wanted to scream just to drown them out. But I couldn't, I was too weak from the hangover, too drained from trying so hard to think. "Shut up," I begged hoarsely, barely a whisper, "just please, please shut up."
But like a song stuck in my head, they kept repeating, again and again, louder with every plea I made. I needed a drink. The slow burn of the alcohol would comfort me, ease my hangover and numb my brain. And maybe then the voices would go away.
Home
Back to Short Works Page
