He threw the bottle, shattering the mirror. Bourbon drenched the surface of the wall, dripping towards the floor. The bottle was almost full. He cursed at himself; what a fucking waste.
He staggered over and picked up a shard of glass, gazing at his reflection. Bloody mouth, missing teeth, swollen, blackened eyes. A Glasgow grin crawled malevolently up each cheek. Whomever had stitched him up hadn't worried about keeping him pretty; bright red scars snaked towards his ears. He was lucky to still have his ears; most people in his position wouldn't. His hand quickly felt his groin; he was very lucky to find that still in place.
He turned towards the door as it opened. She stood there, groceries in her arms, staring at the mess in front of her.
"Here," she said, her voice a whiskey soaked growl, "take these. And be careful. Don't break the fucking eggs."
He shuffled over and took the bags, then wandered into the kitchen, gently placing the eggs in the refrigerator. He pulled out two new bottles of Jack and arranged them on the counter. They gleamed a bright amber in the morning sun. He opened one and took a long hard pull. The inside of his cheeks screamed as the alcohol hit the raw flesh.
"Did you make coffee?"
He lumbered back into the room, bottle in hand, and flopped on the couch. His body began to ache as it sunk into the cushions.
"I don't drink coffee."
She kicked the side of the couch where his head lay.
"I do, you selfish fuck. Why can't you ever think about other people?"
He wolfed down some more of the bottle, then closed his eyes, trying to ignore her foul mood. He almost had his face ripped off, and she was pissed because there was no coffee? Christ.
She kicked the couch again as she returned from the kitchen, her Joe laced with a shot. She slumped into a chair, took a sip, then regarded the broken glass littering the floor.
"Great, you broke the fucking mirror. That's seven years bad luck, ya know. That's going to bring in all kinds of negative energy to this dump. I'm going to have to have someone come in and cleanse this place."
He could feel his body sink deeper into oblivion. She took another sip,then threw her coffee mug at him. It sailed over the back of the couch, missing him completely.
"You could say 'thank you', ya know. I didn't have to stitch you up, ya know."
He turned his head towards her, struggling to open his eyes.
"Are you fucking kidding me? I look like shit. What the hell did you use to close the wound?"
"Quilting thread. Ten stitches to the inch. Just like my Meemaw taught me."
He closed his eyes again, grateful that she hadn't used the staple gun like her Papaw had taught her.