Always Asleep

I was drunk when I decided to do it.

Not tipsy, not philosophical — drunk. The kind of drunk that makes your hands itch and your morals go quiet. One fist clutched a bottle, the other gripped the shotgun. I stumbled down the block, boots clapping the pavement like punctuation marks.

Tonight was the night. I swore it.

I kicked his door open like I was owed something. The wood split like a bad excuse. I stormed in, reeking of anger and rotgut, ready to end this pathetic, ritualistic farce.

And there he was.

On the couch. Asleep.

Again.

Mouth open. Arm dangling off the side. A half-eaten bag of chips wilted against his hip like battlefield debris.

I stood there, panting, shotgun aimed, righteous fury pooling in my gut. The whole house smelled like sleep and cheap soap and last week’s takeout.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whispered.

I crossed the room, slowly now, the adrenaline curdling. He snored. It was smug. It was deliberate. It was infuriating.

I lowered the shotgun. Took a long, punishing swig from the bottle. My knuckles were white. My throat burned.

“Every goddamn time,” I said to no one.

I sat on the coffee table, gun across my knees, looking at the twitch in his cheek, the way his eyelids fluttered like he was dreaming about something gentle.

I wanted to shake him. I wanted to scream. I wanted to fire that shotgun through the floor and watch him jolt awake in terror.

Instead, I whispered, “You win again, you soft little bastard.”

I stood. Swayed. Looked down at him one more time. Pointed my bottle finger at him and pulled the invisible trigger.

Then I turned and left.

As the door clicked shut behind me, he stirred.

But he didn’t wake.

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