I Think, Therefore I Drink

I thank my former fiancé for not locking the door behind her. Otherwise, there's a good chance I would have bled out before the paramedics found me. I awoke to a warm and teddy bear-fuzzy world due to the high doses of morphine administered, which was still circulating through my happy bloodstream.

There are worse ways to wake up, as the nurse changing an IV was kind enough to take a minute to bring me up to speed: There had been no visitors. I was not surprised. Most of my friends were either celebrating graduation with a vacation or working in another country.

I had also been unconscious for three and a half days. Inquisitive police officers had already interviewed my ex-fiancé and her new boyfriend and were interested in everything I had to say.

I told them that I had had an enormous fight and broken up with my fiancée, moped around the apartment for a while, and then planned to get drunk. I opened the door to leave, and the next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital bed with a nurse about to change the IV in my arm.

Concisely, my injuries and mental scattering were enough for the police to open an investigation that was going to and had dead-ended. Stitches aside, they said I had suffered a concussion and would probably never remember anything of the "attack." A week later, I was discharged from the hospital.

My painkillers, it was clear, were going to be the high point on a very low day as I limped back to my former apartment. The recommended dose was one tablet every four hours. So far, a double dose had barely taken the edge off. I just wanted to collect my stuff and get out of there, so I didn't have any plans when I showed up at the apartment.

I stood in the doorway, swathed in bandages and plasters, and popped another pair of pills, "Just here to get my stuff and leave this train wreck behind me." I growled and then pushed past her. She said nothing as her lover, blue eyes and blond hair blocked my path. In my head, I multiplied the number of ways I wanted to hurt him by the number of ways I wanted to hurt her and came up with a number beyond human comprehension.

Despite the pain from torn flesh and stitches, I looked around the apartment, marvelling at the new furniture they had been breaking in with bouts of frantic sexual activity coupled with what was now the disgusting fragrance of Gucchi Rush perfume. None of the new furniture came from Ikea.

I took my time as I packed my clothes, stuffed my laptop into my backpack, and just cleaned out my closet. My ex wordless handed me a bag with every gift I'd ever given her. I didn't bother returning anything she had given me.

My twenty-five years on planet earth total was two suitcases and a backpack. How depressing is that? I lingered only to say goodbye to the one thing I wanted in that apartment but in good conscience could not take: Lynx.

Adopting Lynx had been my idea from the beginning, but the certificates had her name and signatures, and I was not about to start a fight I knew I could not win. Besides, I knew Lynx would have a good home with her and, hopefully, the bastard standing next to her. I took my time, letting Lynx arch her back against my hands as I got down, nose to nose with her. I stared into her deep blue-green eyes as I scratched her beneath the chin and behind her ears. She purred contentedly and rolled over. I kissed the top of Lynx's head and left, forcing myself not to stop, as Lynx gave a long whimpering, mournful meow. She knew I was not coming back, and tried to follow me out, only for Cynthia to scoop her off the floor. I could not resist a parting shot, "I'll be back for Lynx." That was a promise.

That was in the middle of August. I spent two weeks living in a cheap hotel before I moved into an apartment composed of one big room with an ensuite bathroom and kitchenette. The most expensive items in my new apartment were the washing machine, various kitchen utensils, and cutlery, followed by the internet connection in the living room corner.

Most of the wounds had healed, and the removal of the stitches had left me covered in a roadmap of rapidly fading scars. I still had full mobility despite waking up stiff and sore, no matter how I tried to sleep. I think my doctor was impressed with just how fast I was healing.

The days passed, I healed faster than expected, and I continued searching for a full-time job, taking pain medications when I was desperate for relief from the near-constant aching. I worked two part-time jobs at the two Starbucks stores in Lausanne – One in St. François, the other in Bell-Air. They were ten minutes apart from each other on foot worked well for me: I could work double shifts three days a week and take the rest of the week off.

It had been a long day with me working a back-to-back double shift, starting in Bell-Air at 6am until 2 pm, then from 3 pm to 10 pm at the other store in St. François. At the end of that long sixteen-hour workday, I was glad I only had a half shift the following afternoon. It was too early to go home to an empty apartment with only the TV and the internet for company.

Instead, I walked down from St. François, cutting through a small side road, Rue Pépinet, a common pedestrian shortcut to one of the city's major nightlife hotspots - the Devil's Club - famous for its music, international DJs, and overpriced drinks. I was heading towards what was my regular nighttime haunt for its reasonably priced drinks, decent company, and jukebox that suited my eclectic taste in music.

My arrival prompted the owner to jiggle the jukebox, giving me three free credits immediately as he raised an eyebrow in my direction. I nodded, and he gestured to my usual table next to the jukebox, where I had a wall to my back so I could pass the evening in my typical solitary fashion.

Jean-Marc grunted his usual monosyllabic greeting, dropping the coaster, followed seconds later by the beer. Foam trailed down the glass, and I grunted an equally monosyllabic acknowledgement of the beer, wishing for a cigarette even though I had it quite a few years ago.

What was I doing with my life? Right now? Nothing, as I stayed stuck in neutral. I had missed job interviews and opportunities due to the attack, but a quick forwarding of the police report got those rescheduled. But was there anything in the city for me? I was working part-time with nothing to keep me here beyond the possibility of annoying my ex into a heart attack or an aneurysm. Both were tempting but not good reasons to stay. Something inside told me that there had to be better ones.

When my final beer of the night arrived, I found my second one still half-full. He slapped the beer down and me on the shoulder, "Alexander, if you're going to engage in a staring contest with your alcohol, I give you free advice: Alcohol will always win." I had mistakenly looked up, and his dead man's breath enveloped my face like a poisonous cloud.

I drained both, slapped a twenty-franc note on the table, and made my way to the door. It was just before four in the morning, and the clubs would let out the last of the hardcore party animals. They would go on to pack the subway with drunk, puking fools and teenagers. Home and bed beckoned. But the dark of night had more in store for me.