Sunday, August 7, 2016

Summer, Trader's Falls (IIX)



Sunday morning coming down. Jack hated Sundays. He suspected it had something to do with his drinking years. Back then, Sundays always meant the dreaded end of a three or four day bender, bringing with it the shaky hands and fried nerves of an alcoholic hangover, long walks of reevaluation on a weekly basis and alcoholic guilt, until it got to the point that it took Jack six to seven beers to taper off each Sunday, until the benders no longer stopped on Sundays at all; though Jack had been sober from alcohol for over two and a half years now, it felt as if the ghosts from those Sundays fighting alcohol withdrawals still walked with him. 

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