I sat on the backboard behind the toilet stall, feet planted on either side of the toilet's seat. I stared at the toilet stall door, my eyes soaking in the anemic white as the sterile lights above glared down. My vision took it in turns to fade from a sharp almost painful brightness, to darker fuzzy scenes. I felt my stomach flip and my head sag in to my chest in response. A small trickle of vomit left my lips and graced the toilet bowl below. Five minutes later I felt my stomach flip again and more vomit joined the growing community beneath my feet. My eyes flickered off the stall door and downwards, regarding my ruined grey jumper and jeans. Vomit had left dark orange stains on them and the occasional piece of what could have once been described as food, lay on my chest. I felt my lips part again and I dry heaved, an odd sort of relief flickered through me as I realised there was nothing left to puke up. My stomach heaved again, I was proved wrong.
The stall was a mess the floor covered in vomit, not all of it mine, and the toilet was no better off. The toilet door hung off its hinges, brought low by a brief encounter with a shoe; I felt bad for it. I got down the from the top of the toilet and staggered to my feet, managing to gather the coordination to take a step forward. I slipped on the vomit beneath my feet and came crashing down again, my head banging painfully on the toilet seat. I lay there, one arm painfully twisted beneath me, the vomit slowly seeping in through the thin fabric of my clothes. I didn't have the energy to moan in pain and I felt my mouth fill with blood, a courtesy of my cut lips. I spat some of it out on to my jumper and just lay there, not moving. Shallow breaths came and went for an eternity, and the pain in my head never lessened. No one came into the toilets, no one noticed. Nobody had the misfortune to stumble over me. I lay there until the cleaners came and went, too seasoned to try and move my body.
I stared at the drunkard
laying on that warzone of a floor. Confusion had hit me like a
brick when the day dream had begun when my eyes met the bottom of
the beer bottle. I sat on the bar stool, the memory of a man who
could have been my own twin, clearly etched into my mind. Time
seemed to stop as I reached understanding, and the bar with all
its occupants ceased to move. I carefully set the bottle in my
hand down, beckoned to the barman for the bill, paid it, and
left. I ignored my car in the parking lot, hailed a cab and went
home. My brain still a mess from the night's