Chapter 9. Annalita.

As I padded over to the sofa, the aftermath of my drinking hit me. Glancing around I felt like a slovenly pig. There were to empty wine bottles, one on it's side, the other miraculously still upright. A third bottle was lying, partially concealed by a cushion, looking as though I had tried to open it and gave up.

The discarded pizza box was open, soggy with grease, crusts and crumbs were scattered all over the table, a single slice with a bite out of it hanging over the edge. The glass I had been using was under the table, chipped and cracked, the straw nowhere to be seen.

The worst part though, except from not remembering the second bottle of wine, was the blood on the floor. There were smears and fingerprints on the leg of the table and spanning outwards from a small puddle that still looked wet and sticky in the middle.

Thinking that it would be better if my new employer didn't see the havoc I had created for myself, I turned back to him to try and stop him c