this is currently up for a small prize consideration on chris o'shea's wonderful blog survivingmyself.wordpress.com:
A Midday Snack
He was confused. His chest felt tight when he got up. He grabbed his empty wallet. “That fucking whore,” he said. He went to the bathroom to vomit, but noticed that the bowl was already full of brown water. “What the shit?” he said, looking at it. But then the gusher of pain came. He leaned over the sink and let her rip. He could feel the chest tighten worse with each thrust. “That fucking whore,” he moaned in between each session of vomiting. It was like a mantra. Whore. When he was done, he looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was greasy. His teeth were yellow. He hadn’t shaved in weeks. He was probably dying. Whore. Whore. Whore. But this time it didn’t help change things.
Then he went into the living room. The television set was on, and some blonde noon anchor was reading the horror off a teleprompter. He stood and watched the television. He liked the noon newscaster. Many times he spent the lunch hour jerking off to her while she read each tragedy and success in the region. Such was life. Today, he felt a small tingle for her, but she’d have to wait. He moved a few paces away. Saw the green glass of the scotch bottle, smiled, and staggered over to it.
But the goddamned thing was empty. Next to the bottle was a note:
That’s the last time you get drunk and call me a whore. If you want your scotch, it’s in the bathroom, mixing with the toilet water in the bowl.
He read the note again. Fucking whore, he thought.
Then he grabbed the empty bottle. He went into the bathroom. He looked at the sink full of his vomit, and the toilet bowl, stagnant, cold and brown. He sighed. He felt his chest tighten. Then he leaned over the bowl with the scotch bottle, put it in, and tried humming a song while the bottle filled all the way to the top. At least the bitch hadn’t flushed it down, he thought.