Winter of Joe by Trevor Meyer

Closed were his eyes that winter morn. Closed were his eyes that winter afternoon. He only stirred to crumple into new positions that proved to be just as comfortless as the prior. His eyes creaked open once around sunset to make for certain that he still had the ability. The minimal light flooded into the crevice between his eyelids like ten thousand flaming needles. Thus causing the pulsing ache in his head to become increasingly worse. He shut his bloodshot eyes swiftly into a painful but relieving squint, and he cursed himself. He tucked himself deeper into the cotton comforter and he felt the stuffy warmth lay down over his head. It really wasn't much of an improvement, but at least he could escape the descending star and the deep chill that so voraciously ate away at his damaged body. That's where he layed and that's where he stayed to enjoy the aftermath of his hazy holiday. His eyes remained closed that winter night. And dead was the world to him. He awoke the next morning groggy and hungry as shit from starving his body. He lay in bed, eyes on the ceiling, mind on the caked on sweat he'd gathered on his skin, and the unmistakable hunger. His body was drained and he struggled to build up enough drive to stand. He brushed his black hair away from his forehead with his boney fingers and hoisted himself up from his cocoon expecting to be able to stand. He dizzily caught himself on the low set windowsill. Once his inner ear kicked in he trudged to the bathroom with a stretch, a yawn, a scratch of his stomach, and an adjustment of his morning wood. He opened the plain white door and entered his plain white bathroom. The cold from the plain white tile under his bare feet sent a chill up to his spine. He flicked on the light, closed the door, leaned over the barren plain white countertop and looked himself in the eye. He took one hand off the counter to brush the hair from his face for a second time only to let it tumble back into place. His hand moved from the dark circles under his eyes, to the recently attained scar, to the three day stubble along his jaw, to the plain white drawer under his plain white sink. He yanked out an electric yellow toothbrush with his name printed on the handle, "Joe", next to a racecar making sure everyone was aware of his y-chromosome. A gift from someone he could barely remember. Joe brushed until his mouth no longer tasted like ass, figuratively speaking, and ripped off his clothes. He gave himself a once-over in the mirror, touched the hickey that someone he would barely remember left on his collar bone and stepped into his plain white shower. He turned the water on and waited to step under the shower head until it adjusted to an acceptable temperature. He felt the warm water trickle down his head on to his face and neck, down his back, down his chest, letting it engulf every part of his body. He stood stiff and tried to relax, letting go of anything and everything. Including the night he chose not to remember.