Early morning, 10AM. A Saturday.
But it's the third week of a binge. It can make waking up at noon feel like you've gotten up before the crack of dawn.
We're slowly making our way to the kitchen, stumbling... I can hear your gears and cogs, trying to grind the alcohol and the haze away...
And then I hear your thoughts.
I hear you contemplating more Gin.
Fuck you, you're not going to silence me again. I'm not some fetish toy for you to bind and gag. I have had enough of you drowning my screams.
We are NOT drinking this early in the morning.
I stop us in our tracks. I try to pound some sense in you, to get through the mists of morning and sleepiness.
You are too tired to resist.
We slowly make our way to the kitchen.
We look around and make ourselves a cup of coffee.
We throw away the nearly empty bottle from last night.