Bloody Halloween

Nicholas Morgan

I had ‘drunk’ a fifth of whiskey last night by myself. I woke up with a dry smelly mouth. It felt like some one had shit in my mouth while I was asleep. My head throbbed and pulsated. I stumbled to the bathroom and brushed my teeth. The toothpaste didn’t agree with my mouth or tummy, so I hugged the toilet, feeding him for the day.

It was one of those hangovers where you feel like you’ll never touch another drop of booze again. But who was I kidding, I just needed a few hours to regain some vital energy. It was Halloween. I remembered buying some face paint a few days before in anticipation of the festivities.

My friend Fred said he knew of a Halloween party we could attend. I wasn’t much in to social gatherings, but Halloween was different. I would have panic attacks and get real nervous usually around a lot of people. On Halloween I could hide under a painted face with liquor breath and a smile.

I went downstairs to eat some eggs and whatever else I could find in the vacant fridge. Eggs with water were the only thing on the menu. As I was cooking the eggs, I thought of that anti drug commercial. "This is your brain, this is your brain on drugs."

Sizzle sizzle. It made me laugh, as I did, I felt a strange pain in my stomach on my left side. I still had some pot left; I rolled a fat hooter up, and smoked it with my eggs and water, while rubbing the side of my belly anguish.

Fred called:

"Hey, you coming to the party tonight?"

"I don’t know yet, I haven’t really decided," I responded, coughing, as the pain became more intense.

"Oh come on, it’ll be a blast, lots of booze, drugs, and women."

"Ya, nothing wrong with that, I’ll probably go."

"You bloody well bett’a, ya limey sod" Fred said, in his phony British accent.

"I been getting these pains in my stomach all morning."

"Probably just got a tummy ache from all the dam drinking you do."

"No, this feels different then a stomach ache. I can feel it when I laugh, or cough, or breathe in real deep."

"Quit being such a wuss, I’ll be over about seven p.m. to pick your stinky ass up, ok?"

"I guess," I muttered, hanging up the phone.

I looked at the clock; it was three thirty three p.m. I had this ability to glance at the clock every time it was three thirty three a.m. or p.m. I don’t know if I did it subconsciously or what.

Well, I’d better start drinking now, get a nice buzz on for the party, I thought.

The first drink went down pretty rough, but after about the third, my normal drinking habits were at full throttle.

I put a Neil Young CD in my stereo and the slow acoustic songs brought back sad memories of my x girlfriend. She had dumped me about a month ago for some pudly wudly guy with a fancy job. I don’t know if it was the booze, the lack of sleep, or the pain radiating in my stomach, but I started crying in my whiskey. I lit up a smoke, coughing, as the peculiar pain grew like mold.

After my little crying expedition of groveling self-pity, I put on a black shirt, black pants, black shoes, getting ready for the party. I went to my bathroom mirror, my face looked pale, downhearted, and unhealthy. Least I can hide behind the paint, I thought, while applying some of the white paint to my teary cheeks. I covered my whole face with the white paint, then put big black circles around my eyes, and gave myself a big evil clown grin with the red paint. I sprayed some white and yellow hair paint in my matted blonde hair. It took me about an hour to get it just perfect. An artist swimming inside his work can never settle for a half ass job.

Fred came speeding in to my driveway, screeching his brakes as he parked.

I climbed in to his pile of crap car, and we sped out of my driveway heading for the party. My elderly neighbor gave us a dirty look as she watered her flower garden, dirt and gravel from Fred’s tires flying in her face.

Fred convinced me to drop some acid.

"What the hell are you suppose to be anyway?" Fred asked.

"I don’t know, what do I look like?"

"Death."

"Ha, maybe, I sure feel like death," I responded, rubbing my belly, as this new pain wouldn’t let up.

"What are you suppose to be? You look like a rootin tootin shit kickin hillbilly."

"I’m John Wayne, you fucking pilgrim of death," Fred said, in his best John Wayne voice, tipping his cowboy hat.

"Whatever, I hope Christine isn’t at this party with her new yuppie boyfriend."

"You still thinking about that slut? Get over it already, you can meet a new women tonight pilgrim."

"Don’t fucking call her a slut!"

"Relax, spazz, jezzus."

We got to the Halloween party house, it was packed with all sorts of freaks in costumes. Fred and me talked to a number of women and drank anything we could find after the keg was gone. I was actually having a good time for a change, except for the stomach problem. We plugged in some electric guitars that were sitting around, and played some loud sloppy Punk Rock fed distortion. People seemed to dig it, as they clapped when we finished.

My acid was making me feel a tad creepy. My stomach pain suddenly got really bad. I ran for the bathroom clutching my stomach. I began barfing blood; it was three thirty three a.m.

I came out of the bathroom, with blood oozing out of my mouth, dripping down my neck, covering my black shirt.

"Cool, where’d you get the fake blood?" Fred asked.

"It’s not fake dude, I think I’m dying, take me to the hospital," I whimpered.

I fell to the ground, as I spit up more blood. Fred lifted me up, and I managed to wrap an arm around his neck, as he helped me outside to his car.

Christine was getting out of her new boyfriends BMW. We had eye contact, and read each other’s thoughts. She was dressed as an angel. She knew there was something wrong, as I wrapped both my arms around my stomach, leaning up against Fred’s car.

She tried to walk over to me, but her boyfriend grabbed her arm forcefully and made her walk up to the party house. She kept flipping her head around and giving me a concerned look. I wanted her to hold me, to run her finger down my forearm, to tell me it was alright, to kiss me with her soft lips, to stare in to her ocean blue eyes, to hear her say she still loved me.

Fred’s tires burned rubber, as I choked up more blood, on way to the hospital, thinking of you Christine.