*****
Sweat soaked sheets clung to his body. The sounds of the street splashed the walls with an ambulance siren. Eyes bounced about in a frantic spasm. An arm shot straight up to the ceiling reaching to whoever could grant asylum. The hand constricted into a tense fist. Cracks formed in the skin and blood trickled between the breaks.
Inside Tom’s dream he argued with Kathy:
“I’m not here to be at your beck-and-call,” barked Tom.
“I’m not saying that,” responded Kathy. “You don’t know me like I thought you did.”
Tom was not wearing a wedding ring, but Kathy had an engagement ring on.
It was still for a moment and Tom ran his fingers through his hair. It made his hair wet.
He said, “I’m sorry, Sweetness.”
Kathy lost herself in his face. She crossed her arms. Her frustration quickly evaporated. Tom walked into the bathroom and pulled something from the medicine cabinet.
“It’s these damn sleeping powders. They’re messing with me. They make me edgy.”
He tossed the container into the trash and rubbed his face with his hands. His face felt wet. He looked down, he had blood on his hands.
Tom sprang awake into the dark and empty bedroom. He was alone. He remembered.
He whispered, “Our only argument.”
A breeze came through the small opening of the window; it pushed the door shut.
“I even miss that. I miss the down times, too.”
His mouth felt metallic. He hiccuped and rolled to his side. He hiccoughed and it grew into a convulsed, uncontrollable bout. It violently took hold of his body. The blood rushed to his head as half a sandwich and six-fingers of whisky shot out of his mouth in a splash.
Tom fell to the floor and blacked out. In that short moment he saw himself making love to his wife. Then he was alone again.