Monday morning hangover

I wake up on the couch, a blanket over me and a dead weight on my lap. I try to blink my eyes to clarity, past the nausea, past the pressure inside my skull and fuzzy carpet taste on my tongue. I try to replay the sequence of events that lead to me falling asleep here but fail dismally. The curtains are closed, leaving the room in a dim grey that eases the hangover. I appear to still be dressed in yesterday's clothes, now bunched up and twisted from sleeping in them.

I throw the blanket back and the lump on my lap comes to life, sinking its claws into my thigh. I yelp and spring from the sofa, cracking my shin against the edge of the coffee table in the process. The cat darts out from the blanket and vanishes from the room, leaving me disoriented and rubbing both of my legs.

I wonder what the time is and look at my wrist but my watch is missing. I cast about but cannot see my watch or my phone anywhere. The clock on the VCR blinks 12:00 at me, unhelpfully.

I stagger through to the kitchen, squinting against the brilliant sunshine flooding the room and driving steel lances through my battered brain.

The cat waits by the back door, licking itself. It looks up at me with unconcealed contempt as I pass, heading for the sink. I pull a glass from the Jenga game that is my draining board, wincing at the loud clatter as plates and mugs crash back against each other. I run the tap and hold my hand under the water 'til it chills my fingers. I fill the glass and gulp back the lot before refilling and turning off the water. As I head back to the living room, intent on collapsing onto the couch again, I stop by the backdoor, turn the key and open it. The cat just sits there, mid-lick, looking up at me.

"Go on," I tell it. "Fuck off."

It doesn't. I leave the door ajar and head back to the muted security of the darkened lounge.

As I lay there, head tilted back against a cushion, eyes unfocused and half-closed, I slowly become aware of the aches and pains in my body - exhausted muscles complain; bruises moan on my legs and arms; but chiming out above these are lines burning down my chest. I rub a hand on my ribcage as if such an action might soothe the pain, but it doesn't. I unbutton my shirt a little and allow my hand to reach inside and explore.

My eyes snap wide open and I hurry upstairs to the bathroom. I undo the rest of my shirt and slip it off, fling it to the floor, and stand in front of the mirror.

I don't see the blood-shot, red-rimmed eyes. I don't see the ragged, three day-old beard. All I see are the red welts, thin scratches drawing faint criss-cross lines across my chest.

Just like Leon, the last time I saw him.