By Bogman Dragos
the worst part about being alone and sick is being sick but perhaps the second worst is having no one to comfort you He reminded himself aloud that it was his own choice and rolled on the carpet and pushed his thumbs inside his eyes The head was killing him, like the brain grew legs and constantly kneed his eyeballs from the inside, seeking to push them out like caps of beer bottles and exit through the holes And his stomach wasn't any better although it got everything out some time ago The first few coughs came with liquid, pungent vomit but now there was only blood "You can only get what you deserve," whispered the faded silhouette from the mirror. "You might think all this is caused by the bottle of wine you found while dumpster diving as you do. It had been opened and had no label but you thought 'ah, what the hell, wine doesn't expire. It's probably still good.' Hah! It's not the wine, you cretin! It's you. You alone are the cause of all trouble, of all that's going sour in your life." "Fuck you," he said "Oh? That all you can say? You piece of filth. I hope you don't recover from this and finally do a service to the world and stay dead." But the words infused him with the needed adrenaline to keep living On the next morning he was feeling almost right He dressed up and stood before the mirror to laugh at the silhouette but it was no longer there "Ah, that's right," he said. "You died a long time ago, mother. Thank you for your service."