Blackout

by Erin Flanagan

“The sun comes up, the sun goes down, and here you are.” He said it in reference to the early-morning hangover when you were positive you’d never want to drink again, yet come afternoon there’d be a beer in your hand. As a kid, she heard him say it to his buddies, and after her first hangover in high school, he’d laughed as he said it to her, handing her a beer midafternoon, swearing by the hair of the dog.

Alcoholism 101

But sometimes she’d wake in the night, short of breath and sweating, and wonder if there had been more. Alcohol research had told her blackout memories didn’t store in the brain, but what about muscle memory? Sometimes she wondered what secrets were in the very cells of her being, and what they had

What if she really was losing her mind? And yet hadn’t she been giving it away for free for years? Sip by sip, cell by cell. Like a gun in her mouth with the most delicious trigger.

One of the seductive traits of drinking was how it allowed you to hold your problems at bay. All emotions, really. Fear, terror, helplessness. With enough wine, she wouldn’t have to feel anything—including her bruised face and battered body.