Morning Rue

Her shivering body shrunk and wrinkled in the warm water. Salts and fragrances mixed with the disappearing mist as they clashed against bizarre thoughts; the bathroom was stuffy and incredibly filled with inanimate guests. Present were inexpressible anger, stale vomit and anguish all contributing to the unpleasant stench of resignation. Witnesses to a tired life, she contemplated many options, viable and ridiculous, the end of her life, time travel to the past, magic to turn his hands to tree stumps.

Her body was plastered and stained in places she couldn’t see; all she could feel was the pain in her groin and throbbing headache.


The first hour was muffled silence and senseless crying, recalling dark walls and blurred faces, settling on his face and more senseless tears.


The second hour was more silent tears, contemplation and reason and the stupid party, the empty bottles littered on the floor. Dancing on tables, inhaled a blunt from a stranger. Waking up alone, how badly she needed someone to hold her, her mothers disapproving face “good women served alcohol not drank it”. Fragments of a blemished memory.


Third hour was imagining his hands everywhere, the build-up of hate and irritation, thinking of were exactly he put them, then lining him up behind past lovers. Did he hold her close? Did he kiss her passionately? Maybe it meant something.


Googling each possibility, every outcome.


“How to recall a blackout”

“Where lost memories go”

“Possibilities of pregnancy after drunken night”


Never quite the right answers. What she really wanted to learn was who could listen with without judgment and how to wipe invisible scars.


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