Oscar Aitchison

Do what I say or die.

I wake up with something plastered to my face. I pull it off, the taut plastic label slowly ripping out my now out of control stubble. It hurts but so does everything. Light seeps through half closed blinds, an erratic stream making the surroundings just about visible, what time is it? I look at what I’ve just pulled off my face, it’s the back of a label from a cider bottle, high percentage so it seems. I pay no mind and sit up; my head feels like a mining excavation. The woman lying next to me looks out cold, I sit up and pull on my dirty pants from last night along with a puke-stained shirt.