The Early Worm

Looking down as he pissed, Harry felt deprived, cheated, tossed away and dashed to pieces on the rocks at the bottom of some hellish cliff-face. It had been gradually growing darker, over the past few months. At first it had hardly been noticeable, just a slight darkish tint in the mornings, lighter at night when he returned home from work. He thought maybe it was something he ate, an orange at work perhaps, the extra vitamin C giving his piss that colour. But then you could see it. In the morning it was very dark, a sickening yellowish hue. At night it was as clear as water. This morning, Harry was pissing blood.

It didn’t surprise him. The doctors told him that if he had much more booze his stomach and liver and kidneys would rupture and mix about. They said the first signs would be a darkening in the urine, and a particularly putrid odour in the faeces. Harry sat down and strained out a shit. As soon as it hit oxygen the stench almost overpowered him and it was all he could do not to vomit. He got up, holding his hand over his mouth and nose, and looked down. One solitary turd floated morosely in the blood-tinted water. It was black, it stank like a thousand whores’ feet. He flushed it away, wiped and flushed again, then cleaned his hands thoroughly. The next thing he would have to look out for was puking blood. The doctors said that if he started puking blood he would really be in trouble, that puking blood would mean the end. Harry went to the fridge, took out a beer, went back into the living room. He flicked the radio on. Just in time for the 6:00 a.m. news. Something about the wharves. He took a long drink from the beer, placed it on the coffee table while he pulled on his socks and boots. The beer felt good in his stomach so he took another drink, finished the bottle, got up for another. He still had time for some breakfast so he set the pan to boil, dropped in a couple of eggs. Coffee? No. He put a couple slices of bread in the toaster, popped the little mechanism down, got out the butter from the fridge. Not much in there, he would need to do some shopping this evening. He lit a cigarette, sucked on his second beer, listened to the radio while he waited for his eggs. The phone rang. “Yeh?” Harry said into the mouthpiece. “It’s Mary.” “Hey, Mary. Listen, I can’t talk right now…” “I’m sick of it, Harry! I’m sick of it! I’m leaving you!” “How come?” “I hate you! That’s why! You’re worthless! You and your goddamned booze!” Harry put the phone down, went to check on his eggs. Still a minute or so to go. When he picked up the phone again, Mary was still on the line. “Worthless! A worthless alcoholic!” Harry tapped some ash onto the floor. “You’re a worthless cocksucker!” Mary screamed, “You suck cock!” “I know it, baby. Listen, I have to go.” “You suck shit! You eat turds for breakfast! You better go and check on your turds, make sure they don’t OVERCOOK!” Mary hung up. Harry did too. His eggs were ready. He used the tongs to take them out of the pan, put them on a plate, switched off the cooker. The toast was ready, too. He buttered up a few slices, ran the eggs under the cold water, peeled them, mashed them and spread them on his toast. He took out another beer, sat down at the kitchen table to listen to the news while he ate. Mozart. Harry took a bite out of his toast, barely got it down. He ran into the bathroom, heaved into the toilet bowl. The vomit was thick, dark red, stank as much as the shit, worse, and the thought of it made him heave again. When he was sure he was finished, he got up, rinsed out his mouth, went back into the kitchen. He smelled the eggs on toast. He didn’t have time to make it to the bathroom this time and he let loose all over the sink and floor. Done, he took some deep breaths, held one, took his plate and threw it out the window. He stood there. He sat down, removed his boots, his socks, took off his shirt and pants, stood there in just his underwear. He opened another beer, thought about the bottle of vodka he had in the cupboard. To hell with it all.