The drunkard. Hiding at the back of the bus. Not knowing where he's going to. Can't remember where he came from. He's running away. From his memories. Riding to the end of the road. Always to the end. Occasionally turning, to look out of the window at the back. And they're always there. Chasing him. His thoughts. So he curls up as small as he can, and seeks refuge in the bottle, ever clutched in his sweaty palm. Cold, yet it warms him from the inside out. Each 'gluck' of the bottle, as it empties its contents down his throat, speaks of the misery that he so desperately runs from, without moving more than to raise his hand to his mouth again. And again. Wearing so many layers, so few of them belonging to him. But there's nobody to take them back now. Huddled inside so many protective shells. All of them useless. Because what he is trying to reinforce himself against is at the centre of it all with him. Because it IS him. Hiding from yourself is not an easy task, but he manages it. In his constant state of inebriation. Never fully aware or conscious of anything. What is he continuously journeying away from? His past? His family? It could be anything. So many bus men. So many reasons. Never to be told to anybody. They don't speak. Attempts to converse all end the same, a murmured dismissal, more of an unintelligible grunt. A dissuasion from pursuing his colourful past. Perhaps that is what he dislikes. The colour and vibrancy. Varying shades of narcotic, neurotic, psychedelic hypnosis. Which, when viewed by the cold light of day, burn their terrifying image onto any retina foolish to view them. So the drunkard watches them still, but through the distorted, darkened image that appears through the bottle sides. All he can see is the bottle. All he is, is the bottle. It's slowly eradicating any trace of humanity that may have once resided inside him. For what is humanity but the part of each of us that will stop, think and make a rational decision. And they do none of that, preferring instead to lose themselves in the constant swirls of alcohol. Delirium is welcomed with open arms, just another pathway to escape from falling down the cliff face of reality.

This was written at 2.13 am on a Saturday morning. So if it's not all that good, I have an excuse… then again, it's only here because I was tired enough to put it down. Thanks to a Rabid Zealot friend of mine, who gave me the subject, all credit where it's due. I'm not re-reading this, just putting it straight up, so comments will be greatly appreciated, as always. Thanks to my regular reviewers – Mauree W Renaee, Simply Meg and Silvery Darknes, not to mention all those who review a lot of my stuff. You all keep me going.

Scrunchy