The Moment Before the Memories Stop
The moment before memories are interrupted should come with a warning sound.
Room spinning, another failed attempt at sprinting to the bathroom.
Now Jello, your legs have plans that your brain does not. Boomeranging from wall to wall like a slap toy in the hands of a child, you’ve finally navigated the 10 foot route from bed to toilet.
Hurling yourself forward, barely grabbing the porcelain bowl just in time for it to catch the yellow bile that had been brewing in your stomach with every sip of alcohol. Double, double, toil and trouble. Your inner-witch stirs the cauldron, attempting to combine cheap shots, beer, and what little food you ingested over the last twelve hours. Will this ever stop?
Between heaves, liquid escapes the once dry ducts in the corner of your eyes. Tears flow down your make-up covered cheeks, but you don’t seem to notice. Distracted by the burning throat and shaking hands. Arms and legs, more noodles than limbs.
Still on all fours–a feeble table-top, you begin to crawl. The admission to self that’s been moments overdue–the impossibility of gross motor function.
No walking.
No talking.
Just spinning,
and wishing it could be tomorrow already.
This is the moment before it all goes dark. Alert enough to know you’ve gone too far. Fully aware that you can’t meet your own basic needs. The helpless awareness in a drunken haze settles into your chest.
Is this what dying feels like?
Consciousness slowly slips away, succumbing to the body and mind’s loss of control. You drop your tear-stained cheek on the carpet. A fallen manikin in the hallway who found a more accessible resting place. Face down, shirtless, out of place.
Why would anyone choose this?
Why would anyone keep choosing this?
