It was a heavy night, but I was due. It’d been an absolute brute of a week and I needed to let off steam. I admit it, I needed a bloody good drink, sometimes you just do. Let’s face it, it wasn’t the first time I’d got rat arsed at one of Steve’s dos.
The morning after – it was then that the regrets began to kick in. My head felt worse than shit. The antiseptic tang of neat alcohol coated the surface of every tooth. What the hell was in that last pitcher of Zombie? Can’t believe I downed a pint of the syrupy gloop in one go!
Outside it appeared set to be a beautiful day. Inside was carnage: arms, legs, socks, pants and bras everywhere; red wine, beer, pretzels and cold pizza trampled into poor Steve’s best Persian. It was ugly. Seemed a good time to make a quick exit.
On the way out I spotted a skinny kid frying bacon; think he may have been one of Steve’s, but I wasn’t sure.
‘Enough for two?’ I asked, in greedy expectation.
Pulling the front door closed I began chewing on my bacon sandwich. A can of coke and two paracetamols completed breakfast. Head felt worse than ever, and the first mouthfuls of bacon didn’t slide down as smoothly as hoped. Perhaps the fresh air would help. It did a bit, not enough.
After hurling my load I left the remnants of my sandwich to the neighbourhood cats. My stomach wasn’t in the mood for food. In truth my body wasn’t in the mood for being awake, but there was somewhere I needed to be.
Thankfully I was parked close by. Slumping into the driver’s seat I belched and broke wind simultaneously – it seemed funny at the time. Giggling hysterically I fumbled for the ignition. Eventually I stabbed the key in and turned the engine over.
That moment was the biggest regret of my morning after; it’s a regret which will haunt me for the rest of my miserable, worthless fucking life.
These 333 words, based on the third definition of the word ‘zombie‘ , form my entry into the Trifecta 98 writing challenge.