Pool ball at my head

 

The morning breaks over me as with an abrupt blow to my head, scalding sunlight pouring through blinds I never leave open but are as wide as a knife wound, bleeding brightness over me still in bed.

I hear a woman’s voice calling from the bathroom so full of cheer the sound hurts my head. She is asking what I want for breakfast.

I can’t recall the face from last night’s alcoholic haze, let alone a name.

I mumble for her to go away, but not loud enough for her to hear me as the sun wedges open my eyelids more.

I pull a pillow over my face.

I can hardly breathe, but not from the pillow, but from a pain at my side.

Bright or not, spring hasn’t yet sprung on this part of the planet so there is frost on the window pain and cold nips at my fingers and toes.

She calls again, her voice recalling some of the brutal events of last night, but not here name or where she comes from. Why does her voice cause me pain? Why does my side hurt?

When I look I see the bruise and swelling, and suspect I might have a cracked rib.

I recall a pool ball – no, two – and the irate rant of a former high school jock screaming at me about messing with his girlfriend.

I recall ducking under the first pool ball – aimed at my head – but getting hit by the second in the ribs, and I’m surprised I’m not dead.

The woman calls again with the word “breakfast” floating over me like a dark cloud.

I pull the covers over me and the pill and again mumble, “Go away.”