The Demon Inside
Sometimes I turn into a different person when I drink
I slowly come to consciousness with the sinking realization that my left knuckles are throbbing. That’s never good. Opening my eyes, I see that they’re bloody as if I’ve been in a fight.
Uh oh.
I’m not a fighter, so this probably means I fell down last night. Or possibly punched a wall. Now, the question is, how bad was the scenario, really?
Through all of this, bear in mind that I’m not a rebellious teenager, nor am I a 19-year-old sorority girl. I’m a middle-aged career woman and wife.
And on the surface, I seem just fine.
My husband glances at me as I enter the kitchen, holding up my hand. His gaze speaks volumes, a combination of disgust and sadness. This is not uncharted territory for us. This path has been deeply trodden over the years. It’s worn by footprints but never gets easier to navigate.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” he asks.
“Leaving the party is a bit hazy,” I reply. In reality, I don’t remember leaving the party at all, let alone the walk home.
He’s pissed off, understandably so, and he makes me wait.
