The alarm clock sang with its less than jolly screech. A fist appeared from under the duvet and quietly smashed down upon its snooze button, before returning to snoring merrily.
Mere sleep seconds later and the process was repeated.
This time, though, a face appeared from underneath the disturbed cover. It was an older and greyer version of Alex, who growled at the clock and rubbed his slits of eyes, before returning to his cotton and polyester lair once more.
Nobody likes mornings: if they claim to they are either liars or masochists. Alex was neither and he hated mornings. Loved night time, but hated mornings.
Looking back to his childhood, he always accused his nocturnal sleeping patterns on the fact that his mother spent the late evenings entertaining, to him, faceless male voices. For her protection he would force himself to stay awake, reading and re-reading Peter Pan until the giggles and moans had ceased. Being a health freak, his mother had the capacity to moan and giggle right up until the moment the croc’ with a clock had seen off Hook: Twice.
The alarm clock sang again. Alex’s hand snaked toward the vile noise and fumblingly turned it off. Reluctantly his day began.
He turned over in bed and, as was the way just lately, felt that twist in his abdomen.
Nine weeks’ since she had left and still the pain weighed him down like Jupiter’s gravity. The only time he didn’t think about her was when he was asleep and that was because the hash and beer allowed him the luxury to dream in ‘Technicolor’. He was relying on them too much. He didn’t consider himself addicted, exactly, to either the alcohol or the weed, although he was, by his own admission, doing way too much. If too much was making sure that every night, without fail, he could barely see the stairs as he ascended them to his room.
He pushed himself out of bed, feeling the glue in his mouth roll to the back of strained throat. He felt the pull of the kettle, like a fishing line pulling him in, but time dictated only a quick swallow of water straight from the bathroom cold tap.
With fifteen minutes remaining before the train left the platform and a ten-minute walk to the station, Alex stumbled around the house in a treacle rush. He wandered blindly from one room to the next and back again, looking for things his mind didn’t have the capacity to recall by the time he got there.
‘Thank God…’ he thought, as he gave up on finding a pair of socks, and gladly mixed and matched. ‘Thank God, I don’t get hangovers.’