The cold night air pours in from an adjacent window, and the sound of laughter drifts from behind a closed bedroom door. I resent both. There is very little to laugh about tonight, I am a mess of greasy cheesy Cheez-Its and exactly twenty-four unopened bottles of beer. I am a mess inside, tired, but sleep holds little comfort. It is too soft or too hard, with no middle ground and very few good feelings when I wake up.
The cut running perpendicular to my index finger had all but closed, thanks to the band-aid I had kept on it for several hours and the Neosporin I applied earlier too. It took the band-aid off because it was tight, and ran my fingers through my hair. Instinctively. A thread of hair caught the cut, got underneath it, and goddamn pulled the skin up to re-open the thing. A big drop of blood spread from the newly reddened cut. I watched as the blood drop grew bigger and bigger, a case of interest fed by my own circulatory system. Then I stuck my finger into my mouth, and put another band-aid on my finger. Things have not healed.
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