Sixty Eight

I watched him sleep on the couch after tending his wounded hand. My shirt had some smudges of blood after he hugged me. He was intoxicated and did not know what he was doing; he did not even feel the pain in his wound. A cut from the broken glass. Did he plan to kill himself by losing his blood?

I sighed in frustration, and my gaze narrowed on him.

He was sleeping on the side, sounding like a child, and still holding my hand. We would have talked unless he was sober, which he wasn't. How many alcoholic drinks did he consume?

I brushed away the hair from his forehead, and he sniffed the alcohol, smoke, and vomit from him. I wrinkled my nose, and placed his hand on the side.

Where did he put his things? Someone might think I murdered someone for wearing this shirt.

I first cleaned the mess in the living room before looking at the kitchen, which was almost full of alcohol. Is he serious about consuming it all? Until when?

I didn't see any food or anything to eat. I sighed, palming m