PAIN: Part II

My footsteps were short, unsure—damaged.

I found the clinic after a few blocks.

It’s doors opened for me like greedy jaws, grinning, swallowing me as I limped inside.

The straight-faced bitch at the front desk scowled at me.

A wasp landed on my shoulder.

They prescribed a few boxes of pills, pain-killers—sinus relief and head-fixers. I shelled out the dough and staggered into a nearby café, asking for water.

I explained the situation—need water for the pills, skull cracking—and the waitress grinned—nothing like a headache after a night out in Queenstown, she said.

As if I’m hung-over.

As if I’m stumbling around, drooling, hammering my brains out, because of a fucking hangover.

I swallow the pills and start to feel better.

I’m feeling better.

Drink lots of water.

Keep eating the pills.

Everything will be alright in the morning.