Alone

by Glen Binger

Your face is on fire. You’re sitting in your crowded living room and you’ve never felt so alone in such pain. The house party is finally starting to pick up but you’re too drunk to function. You had your own bottle of whiskey and consumed it in its entirety before everyone showed up, causing your face to swell and change color. It made you feel strong, inhuman. You decide the only problem is your increased level of intoxication. You can’t see. You can’t feel. You can’t talk. So when people come to thank you for inviting them, you give a nod and smile but they immediately see you’re drunk so they laugh and pat you on the shoulder. You drift in and out of consciousness for the next hour. Someone passes you a joint. Time passes by, you sober up a little bit and the first keg of beer has been kicked. You somehow manage to successfully rig up the second without vomiting Jameson everywhere. People cheer. For thirty seconds, you feel loved. You stumble back to your couch in the living room only to find that an attractive girl has taken your spot. You sit next to her and tell her you know Jude Law. She doesn’t believe you. You bluntly ask if she wants to see your genitals. She laughs. You don’t know why she isn’t walking away yet, but you aren’t going to question it. She asks you if you need a beer. Smiling, you say yes. She takes your hand and leads you into the bedroom. There is no beer in there. She takes off your pants and sees your genitals. Still no beer. She places her mouth around you. You forget about the beer. The earth stops spinning. You finish and say thank you four times. She smiles and tells you her name. Within seconds, you forget it and tell her you will Facebook her. You know she knows you’re lying. She knows you know she knows. She leaves and you take an Ambien, still without pants. You hear glass breaking downstairs, but you can’t find the strength to move your eyelids, let alone your limbs. You pass out, face down on the shag carpet beneath your roommate’s mattress with no pants on. You dream about The Great Scarecrow Revolution of 3015. When you wake up, you’ve somehow made it into your room. Three different girls are in bed with you, all naked. You’re wearing a t-shirt but still missing the bottom half of your wardrobe. You ask, “Is my face all red?” They don’t answer; they’re still asleep. You sigh. Somewhere, someone is in the exact same situation loving every second of it. Not you. They don’t feel this alone. You rub both hands up against the flesh of your face and it feels like fire. Eight thirty in the morning. You need a beer and more drugs.

Glen Binger likes to yell at clouds and wishes they had the guts to yell back. He edits the flash fiction magazine 50 to 1 and is a member of The Broad Set Writing Collective. Sometimes, he says naughty things at his Only Human blog.