The Best Relationship Ever


I jerk awake on the bathroom floor and bang my head again on the base of the cabinet. As always that pain is secondary to the pain in my stomach. I open my eyes and see that the blood has not only seeped through my makeshift bandage, but has pooled a bit on the floor. Just another place I’m going to have to clean up. That dream was unsettling to say the least. The real scene ended with us making out on the blanket half way through the meal. We would have had sex, but the public surrounding caused me to have a bit of performance anxiety. Kirsten wasn’t that upset.

Standing up I catch a look at myself in the mirror. I look half dead. Most my body is awash in blood, some fresh and dark while some of it is turning a brownish color. I can start to smell it. The skin that isn’t dyed red is pale white, like a corpse that’s been under the water for a while. Blue veins and red arteries are clearly visible. My face is the worst, made worse still by the fact that I hadn’t shaved for a week before this. Under the stubble and short hairs the skin is still pale; my eyes are a bit sunken with black bags underneath them. I am the poster child, a walking advertisement, for not pissing off your girlfriend.

That gets me remembering how disturbing the Kool-aid man is. He’s a giant pitcher filled with Kool-aid, so we can assume that’s his blood. It also helps my theory that the Kool-aid is red, not unlike the color I puked up. Now he goes around handing out free Kool-aid to little children everywhere with reckless abandon. Is he feeding the children his blood? Or is it the blood of his vanquished enemies in some sort of bizarre Kool-aid man war ritual? This is pretty…stop. I need to focus.

Behind the mirror is a bottle of aspirin I keep around. I grab it and rattle it to make sure there is some left. Nothing would piss me off more than spending an arduous time (and I know it would be because nothing else has been easy) and finding out that there is no prize. I push the mirror closed. I’ve already forgotten how hideous I look, so seeing my corpse-like body again gives me another scare. I manage to open the bottle with no difficulty. The arrows are already lined up because I don’t have curious children and trying to line them up when I’m hung over is a complete bitch and a half. I shake out two of the little white pills, but after a small debate I shake out two more. As extra-strength as this stuff claims to be I don’t think it’ll be enough, but I’ll try it. I twist the hot water on, trying to learn from my previous mistake. I’m hoping it was the coldness of the water instead of the water itself that caused the vomiting. The water goes down smooth and it’s only a partial pain in the stomach. Some of it tries to come back up, but I stop it. There’s no way I’m throwing up again. If I throw up again I’m dead. Eventually the feeling subsides and I just stand there, looking at my reflection in the mirror.

“You fucking dumbass.” It says to me.

“What?”

“Why the hell aren’t you getting help?”

“Because I don’t want Kirsten to go to jail. You know that.”

“She stabbed you!”

“She was angry!”

“She STABBED you! What the hell is wrong with you? That is not the sign of a healthy relationship! I think that signifies maybe she wants to see other people!”

“I don’t have to listen to this.” I say as I turn away from the mirror.

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