The small slit between my eyelids revealed a pint-sized bottle of vodka lying on it’s side on the night stand. There’s nothing left in the bottle, of course. Attempting to remember why I was suddenly awake, I groggily glanced around parts of the dark room without shifting in my prone state. Since I couldn’t see anything but the bottle of vodka, now empty, and my phone, I came to the intelligent conclusion that the vodka bottle probably didn’t rustle in a way that woke me up. So I rekoned the phone must've rang or vibrated or played a little chipper note in the way phones do. Not that I checked the phone once I came to that conclusion, you understand.
Fog was still murked over my eyes like a faded film. Even as I struggled to open them completely. Figuring it must had been four in the morning when I finally lost the battle to stay awake, I wasn’t in a hurry to get out of bed. It seemed dark so it must still be damn early. They say that alcoholics and smokers and depressive types and the occasional drug user make fantastic writers. I will tell you this; possessing those four qualifications myself, I must be a hell of a writer. I shifted slowly upwards, using my hands to bring myself against the wall in a sitting position, leaning against a lumpy, dingy pillow. I was careful not to make myself completely uncomfortable as in it would cause me to get out of bed this early. To my surprise, except that it wasn’t actually a surprise, I was still fully dressed. A note pad and a pack of cigarettes were bundled in the bed beside me, looking as though they had slept comfortably with me all morning. I suppose this is appropriate, as I am married to those two just as much as I could be married to any one person.
With no intention of lighting it inside, I slid a cigarette carefully out of it’s pack and let it dangle from my lip. My stinging eyes fell lazily over the words scribbled across my wrinkled note pad. Last night I hadn’t really had any inspiration, so I looked up one of those writing prompts you find online. I tried to create something; it came out like a botched romantic murder mystery that I ended with a suicide just because I got sick of writing. Or maybe at the point I threw in the suicide, I was just too drunk to keep writing. Either way, the creased, shaggy pieces of paper had slept with me faithfully through the morning nap.
Damn, my joints were stiff. It seemed as good a time as any to seriously begin the journey out of bed, I swung my legs over to the floor quick enough that I couldn’t turn back. The floor was cold. I knew it must be early. Dark outside, cold floors, no motivation. The smell of tobacco was filling my nostrils and I just didn’t want to wait for that cigarette anymore. I pulled myself up to the standing position with one groaning swoop. I noticed my anti-depressants had rolled onto the floor, and I prayed to God I didn't take any extra last night. It’s funny how when you’re depressed and you decide to drink, quantity begins to matter much more than quality when it comes to your crazy drugs. I hadn’t taken them in a month anyway.
Shuffling down the hallway, I ultimately made my way to the front door. I opened it quietly, careful not to disturb anyone on this early, chilly morning, and stepped onto the porch. A bit of a breeze flowed through the air and made me curl my toes in tight as if that alone would keep me warm. Struggling against my still-sleeping ligaments, I managed to flick the lighter fast enough to get a glow on the end of the cigarette. Inhaled deep, exhaled slow.
l’ll be damned, I thought, as I took in the outside world for the first time that morning. I finally peered at my wristwatch and realized it was 3:33 p.m.. This wasn’t an early morning accidental wake up call. I had passed out for nearly twelve hours. Sleep, writing exhaustion, or alcohol had taken me so deep into slumber I didn’t even know half a day had passed. It wasn’t early freaking morning it was just a damn, dark rainy day.