Some Kind of Love

Eugene woke to the thunder of his own pulse. He was tangled in sweat-stained sheets, and for a moment he thought he’d drowned in a nightmare. From above, if someone had peered down, they would have seen the deep hollows beneath his eyes as he caught his breath, staring at the ceiling. He cursed under it. Light bled in from a single window, white and harsh.

He pulled himself up and planted his feet on the cold floor, stared at nothing. His mind fumbled through hazy recollections—another night at the bar, another argument with some poor soul who nudged him too hard or gave him a look he didn’t like. He felt the bruise on his knuckles, though he couldn’t remember how it got there. Could’ve been from the bar, could’ve been from slamming his hand against a wall. His life had become a mix of regrets and cheap whiskey.

By Niklas Osterman