At the request of a few people (who shall not be named) who have begged to know what I’ve been up to, here is a special sneak peek of my new work in progress, tentatively titled, “Bury Me Twice.”

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My first thought upon waking was, “Dammit, I did it again.” Admittedly, I was unsure if I was referring to the actual waking up, or whatever thrice-damned event that had taken place the night before.

Experimentally, I pried open a crusted-over eyelid and nearly howled at the blazing sun that was beaming through my open blinds. I could smell stale sweat and smoke, and the remnants of greasy food. My mouth was fuzzy, my throat was raw and gritty, and I could bet that I knew why.

I sent my tortured gaze sideways, toward the cluttered, upturned, plastic milk crate I used as a night stand. There was an empty pill bottle laying on its side, and a half-empty bottle of vodka keeping it company. A hunk of day-old birthday cake, and an empty take out container from my favorite Chinese place also vied for space. Growling, I lifted a weak arm, and swept everything off of the makeshift bedside table, including my cell phone, which, of course, choose that moment to vibrate and ring. Wincing at the noise, I threw my arms over my head and waited for the stupid ringtone to stop before attempting to rise from my bed; I hoped I was the sole occupant there. In what seemed like slow motion to me, I planted my feet firmly on the floor and tried to sit up. My body refused to take orders from me, the stubborn git, and I merely rolled from the mattress onto the cold, hardwood floor. Lucky for me, I was already on the floor; my bed frame had broken months ago, and I hadn’t gotten around to replacing it.

I landed in a tangled heap –twisted clothing, bed sheets and all– looking for the world like a life-sized, discarded doll. I cursed my limp legs, and punched myself weakly in the thigh. I needed to get up, and soon, if the earthquake in my bowels was any indication. I rolled to the wall, and clawed at it, using it to pull myself upright. Once on my feet, I swayed and surveyed the damage.

My small bedroom looked like a tornado from Party Central had ripped through it. Torn, cheap wrapping paper bits, plastic bags of odds and ends, price tags, beer cans, and — dear Holy One, was that a condom? I felt a horrible burn in my stomach, and wobbled as fast as I could to the bathroom. I could deal with everything later, I convinced myself.

Famous last words, and all that. [click to continue…]

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