I blearily wake up far too early. I suppose that's what comes up dozing off in the early evening. What time is it?
God. It's six.
As I sit up on the sofa, I notice the paper next to it. Goddamnit. Might as well read it, though, I suppose.
Oh, look, another death. That's hardly surprising. Two murder, I guess, if you count this "H.A." shit. And--
"Wha...oh, fuck." That...that explains a lot, really. So, she's been eating years of my life. Out of some morbid curiosity, I glance at the horoscopes. Oh, helpful. I "may" learn something new. I just fucking did. And, yes, it did change my opinion on things.
"Goddamnit," I mutter. "God...God fucking damn it." I lie back, absorbed in this new train of thought. "Let's see. One year per issue, and the issues come every day. That gives me...yeah, about two months. Two months to live."
I suppose a part of me expected that I would be more...distraught over finding out that I was going to die. I never thought about it, but it feels strange. Like I should be breaking down in tears...or something. But, no. Just this sort of...irritated resignation.
"I mean, really," I ask myself, "what could I even do, anyway? I'm not going to kill other people for this goddamn newspaper. And there doesn't seem to be a way to stop it--I still don't know why I started receiving it in the first place. So, I guess that's it. I am well and truly fucked."
I close my eyes. "God...damn it."
I lie like that for a few hours, drifting hazily between sleep and wakefulness. I don't want to get up. It's too early and I have no reason to be up and there's nothing I can do and it's all worthless.
Finally, at nine, I can't stand it any more. My mind has begun wandering and I'm thinking about all the horrible things that could happen to me. Some...are less horrible than others, admittedly. Certain...ways in which she could draw the life out of me. But it's still fucked up.
I get up from my sofa and slump over to the kitchen. I should probably eat something. I go to the refrigerator and open it.
*Clink*
Oh. Right. I still have that alcohol left over from when Lawrence came to visit a few months ago. "Yeah, fuck it," I say. I pull out the half-empty bottle of vodka and get out a glass. After a moment of consideration, I put the glass away.
By the time the bottle is empty, I'm starting to get depressed. I'm not completely plastered yet--I've got a pretty decent tolerance, after all--but I'm certainly well on my way. Maybe I should have eaten breakfast first.
I collapse back onto the sofa and am surprised to find myself crying. "Why?" I ask the newspaper. I'm just drunk enough that it doesn't seem totally stupid. "Why me? Why would you do this? Throw a beautiful woman at me, just to drain my life away. Sure, I don't know what I'm doing with myself, you bastards, but...but..."
I pause. What if...oh God.
"That's why, isn't it?" I demand of the still-silent publication. "I never really had anything ahead of me anyway, did I? I was just going to waste my time and money and not even get the goddamn degree and never amount to anything....I can't even pick a topic for my dissertation, for Christ's sake. I was just going to be a stupid mess of useless."
I begin hiccuping between the tears.
"I guess....maybe I should be thanking you? For sparing me from that? I dunno. Maybe Hannah was right. Maybe I am worthless. Maybe...maybe this is for the best."
I rest my hand on the newspaper. She really was beautiful.
"So...yeah, I guess. You can have me? But...I dunno...I'd just like it to be...special, maybe? I...I dunno."
I lie there, intoxicated, for the rest of the afternoon.