It’s 4 a.m.
Far too early;
far too soon.
There is a rampant thumping pounding hammering away at the insides of my skull. I can tell, by the amnesia and the empty bottles of bourbon falling to the floor as I stirred beneath my sheets, I lived through another ominous night where all I wanted was to forget…everything.
Some call what I have a gift, and I agree. It’s the half-eaten dead bird at your feet kind of gift your cat leaves you; horrifying. Regardless of the high praise from those who have profited from my talent, there are days when all I want is to stare down the barrel of a shotgun and blow away every trace of this burden.
Instead, I drink. A lot.
For a fleeting moment I consider throwing the fight, closing my eyes, and letting sleep whisk me away into the dark side of the dreaming. I know better. Sleeping down the day won’t release me from my problems anymore than the drinking will make this burden go away.
With great effort I pull free of the sheets, find the floor, and rise to my feet. No sense letting myself get the better of me; I had to get ready and get on the road. It was an hour drive to the parish, and attending morning Mass was vital if I expected to live through another day of making deals with devils.