Pete drank, and he slept, and enveloped himself in the darkness.
The slither of light coming through the curtains woke him, falling across his face, letting the harsh world back in.
A waft of stale air hit his nostrils, his own unwashed body, cigarette smoke and Scotch; a bottle was on the bedside table, a half full glass beside it.
Scotch bottle and pouring out another glass, neat.
another mouthful of the whisky
“Where the hell have you been?” Joe Merrick said without any preliminaries. “For Christ's sake Pete, you can't just not turn up at work for three days without any explanation. You do know your job is on the line?” He wrinkled his nose up. “Have you been drinking? I would say you smelt like a brewery, but a whisky distillery might be more accurate.”
“Joe,” Pete said, holding his hand out. “Gi' me that.”
He focused on Joe, to force the memory to fade away.
His t-cell count was almost non-existent an' the antibiotics weren't doing any good
Jamie's sister's like this.
He nodded
And then there was the memory of the beginning, long before the sickness, when they had been young and reckless, going to parties with mismatched music and warm cheap beer, crammed tight into someone's tiny front room. The floor was inevitably sticky, the smell of sweating lusting bodies, kebabs, soggy chips and cannabis penetrating every pore of the room.
or begin to fantasize