Ian Matters

The pain I wake up to is unbelievable and solely residing within my skull. My eyes are acidic and sensitive when I open them and my tongue is like sandpaper against the insides of my lips and cheeks that are like dried bubblegum stuck to the underneath of a table. There's a coldness against my head again but it's only giving me more of a headache and Sal is sitting beside me on the edge of the coffee table, hunched over and staring at me with her unimpressed, motherly gaze.

I can vaguely hear her call me a fucking child through the loud as hell ringing happening in my ear drums then, and I try to give a cheeky laugh but it comes out as more of a gargled cough followed by a weak smile. I catch her roll her eyes, and she turns the cold pack on my head over and repositions it.

I don't want to move. Part of me reluctant, and I kind of immediately assume once I move a single muscle the pain will explode and my skull will cave in and my entire body will burst into flames. I've never been this hungover before, with a concussion, but even with the concussion I know how absurd and totally impossible that is. When I will myself to lift one of my hands the pain zaps through the nerves down that limb and it's more then I expected it to be.

Sal gently forces my hand back down, though, and gets up and forward to help me sit myself up, and the task is all wincing and cringing and groaning in pain with more then a few exasperated looks appearing on Sals face. She is obviously not impressed with the night I had last night, and it's consequences, and I'm not surprised. I am surprised at the total lack of regret I'm experiencing involving the night though, or what I remember of it, at least. There's not a trace of it here and I can't really think straight enough to wonder why, so I just kind of sit there, nod internally and accept it.

I only then realize Sal has been talking to me, “-- and I have to take care of your concussed ass now because who else will--”

My heads pounding and I am very suddenly filled with annoyed rage and I groan very long and loud and very grumpily hiss at her to shut her goddamn face. She does, and frowns very deeply at me for a moment, and then leaves me to fend for myself on the couch.

This god damned couch. I wish I would stop waking up on this god damned thing. A person can only take waking up on a couch so much before it begins to get uncomfortable, and it's gotten to the point where the discomfort fucking enrages me.

I want to toss the thing out the window right then, and if I had the strength to and the fucking nerve, I probably would have, and Sal would've been pissed if I had, too, but I didn't, and I sat still for the next two hours and whined pathetically to myself on that couch. That ugly green fucking couch.