Despite getting pretty drunk the previous night, I didn't get a hangover. It still worried me that I couldn't get one, that I still could process alcohol that well. The past couple of days I'd been pretty bad; whiskey here, scotch there. I made a mental note to even lay off beer. I knew what would happen if I didn't.

And right back to super-negative again.

I'm a work in progress, cut me some slack.

It sure didn't help that I took a bit of the money I'd given Morris last night. He was holding it in his fist as he snored away on the floor. I would have taken all of it, but I noticed that all the bottles in the place were empty. I would also like to remind you that Mr. Morris supported himself off what other people worked hard for, broken heart or no. He didn't seem to be doing so well at the moment, though. I was too out of it the previous night to really pay attention to details, but the place looked far worse in the early dawn. I helped myself to some of Morris's smokes as I leaned back on the couch and let my eyes wander. Clothes were strewn everywhere; Morris had made a little nest for himself on the floor out of them. It was funny because the closet looked almost empty. I could see the closet easy enough because it was a tiny studio apartment. Maybe it'd be better to call the whole place a closet that had a smaller closet in it. The bathroom didn't have a door, just a crusty old towel held up with thumb-tacks. If it hadn't been December, there probably would have been flies. There were so many bottles on the table that you couldn't even fit a cup of water on it. The sink didn't have any dishes in it either, just more bottles. I wondered if he ate with his hands, or maybe ordered out, or maybe just drank all his meals. I wondered how long this could have been going on. He wouldn't last much longer if he kept this up, especially if he had been warned off by Liz. After seeing first hand how they went about their business, it was a miracle that the man had made it that far.

Morris was still lying there completely out of it, and still more than likely well-marinated. I checked his pulse. While doing so I discovered that I was having a bit of trouble walking a straight line.

Though Morris's place wasn't really the safest place to be, I decided to wait a bit before heading out. I wondered briefly what would happen if Liz and crew found me here with him.

It was slow going, sobering up. I had the vague idea that counting all the empty bottles in the place would help me concentrate as well as scare me away from booze. I kept losing track of how many I counted, but it was because I kept turning over in my head what had been said to me a few days ago. Those two—Liz and her "friend"— knew far too much about me. Far too much. Heh. I had been sitting there thinking Morris had gotten lucky, but how did he stack up when compared to me? I'd managed to survive the cold, get a little bit of cash, and even get close to Liz. She was still over the hill, but it wasn't a mile-long stretch anymore.

On the other hand, I had no place, no bank, no job (presumably; it had been more than a day and I hadn't called work once), no car, and even less sense. Just what was I doing, again? Was I running off anger? Or was I just falling into old habits? Maybe I was just wandering around, three brain cells flickering in vain, a nasty smile smeared across my face and dying embers smoking behind my eyes, all gassed up on scotch and ready to rocket myself into the first mistake that presented itself.

I made myself think about what Liz was supposed to steal. I wondered what would happen if I got it first. I splashed some water on my face and looked into the bathroom mirror. The smile wasn't any nicer.

My steps were more sure, and my hands were a little less shaky. I still felt like I had a cold, but I knew I'd get over it. I had dried the sweat off my clothes when I'd taken a shower last night. They still smelled. I did a few more laps around the apartment. Morris didn't care, or even notice. I actually checked to make sure he was still breathing. Passing by the table again, I noticed something new. Dead in the middle of it, serving as a coaster, sat a yellow notepad with some slanted scrawls on it. I picked some of the bottles off of it and lay them in the sink, and then flipped through the notepad's pages. Some were stuck together from spilled drinks. None of it was written with a steady hand, and it got less steady as the pages went on. What was written was some pretty crazy shit. It went like this:

Well, she came by today, just like she promised. She'd stop over for a drink, she said, to celebrate my birthday. I'm surprised she even remembered. She remembers something like that, but she totally ignores me whenever I try to talk to her. I've been chasing after her for months now. At first...

Several lines were all scribbled out to the point where I couldn't read them. I skipped over them and went on:

I really don't know why I chased after her at first. Maybe I do know why, and I don't want to admit it. Whatever. Anything I write down doesn't seem right. It doesn't catch what I mean, at all. But now (more scratched out words) I guess I'm going after her (some more scratched out words) after I finish this glass.

She met that guy again, the one with the pny-tail. I didnt catch what they were said this time. I guess they were talking about me. Who the hell is that guy? She's been talking o him alot. Last time two weeks ago when they met two weeks ago they were talking about new people and if they were worth getting. They talk to a lot of peeeple. What is she doing? Over the past couple of weeks, she's been doing a lot of jobs. She's been spying on a lot of people and breaking into a lot of people's places. I've been spying on her too. Har Har. I still went after her even after what she said. Would she really do it? Will she really kill me? From the way she looked at me, I really wonder. She didn't look at me with any fondness. She looked at me like an annoying kid. I really wonder if she'd be heartless enough to not do it herself. I'm not a kid anymore. I'm a big boy, I can buy my own smokes and whiskey all on my own now. I do it a lot. I'll do it right now.

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The page ended there, and the writing kept getting sloppier as it went on. I turned the page and kept going, squinting to make out what was written. Morris kept snoring.

I moved again. I have to keep moving, from shithole to shithole. I'm getting scared. I thought I was scared before, but I had no idea what scared was. I thought I was dead. I know what Dead is now.

I saw a guy eat another guy. Maybe he would have ate me too. I guess he was too busy eating the other guy. Cue the canned laugh track. Only something like that can laugh for me now. I can't remember the last time I laughed. I just remember Liz biting the neck of the guy who ate the other guy. It kinda takes the fun out of everything.

This kind of thing must happen a lot. I was the only one who was freaked out by it. Not that anyone saw. I guess she was right. This shit is too big for me.

I think there is sixty feet of lower intestine in every human being. I know now that there is still stuff in those sixty feet. I know cannibals wait no Dead don't want to eat that. I wonder how much all that stuff weighs.

Moved again. Third place. I wonder if that's something worth celebrating. Fuck it. Let's drink to it. You and me my dark secrets. I have dark secrets now. Dark secrets are always something soo cool on T.V. Always some guy with hair in his eyes looking down but looking up through his bangs and then that announcer guy with a deep voice goes "a man with a dark secret..." I wonder how many gallons a day that guy puts down. I can take on enough to sink a battleship these days. Me and him should get together sometime and swap secrets.

I swear there are dogs following me. Everytime I see a stray mutt, I gotta try to ditch it. There aren't any around this place. Not yet. I'll probably have to move again. Soon. I hate how they follow me with their eyes. They don't trot after me until I'm not looking at them. When I look back at them, they just sit. Sometimes they nose a garbage bag. You can't fool me. I saw what happened to that guy. I know what you want to do to me. I don't care how hungry you are mutt or how smart you are. I do care who your master is though. I kinda want to know why he's friends with Liz.

A lot of those people that Liz talks to end up eating people for her and her friends. The ones she meets in bars I mean. Not the super spies they alwys dicuss their busines and they just bite and drink. The other people though (there was a stain on the paper, and a few puncture marks, like he'd stabbed the notepad after spilling his drink) sometimes they seem kinda normal, and sometimes they can't really talk. They just kinda stare, and drool. Some of them now just bite people. One of Liz's new friends cuts at their wrist and they suck on it and sometimes they become a little more normal. Sometimes its just for a little while. Most times actually. It's only been a few times where they stood up and acted normal all the time. Just a cut of a wrist. Cut of a wrist. Cut of a wrist.

I guess I forgot to pay the rent. The landlord kicked in the door as I was just starting to pass out in the bath tub. I guess I cut it wrong too. The doctor said I would still be able to move my fingers. I guess I didn't cut it deep enough either.

I moved again. I didn't want to take the chance of them finding me after a stunt like that. It's weird. It's weird that I would do that but then move right after because I'm afraid. I guess I'm more afraid of what they'd do to me then what I would do to me.

My hands shake a lot now. Like all the time. I have to use both hands to pour the first one. I have to pour. I have to convince myself I'm still not watching those people eat each other.

From there on out I couldn't make sense of any of it. Some of it seemed like words, just jumbled and out of order. Some of it was just scratches, lines, and loops. I pictured Morris sitting there, rocking back and forth, trying to hold back the latest wave of vomit while he doodled. I wondered if he even knew why he was doing it. Maybe it was force of habit, something to do to keep the terror at bay. The pad had been forgotten at some point, buried under the bottles.

Even after, he still spied on her. He kept at it, even if there wasn't any sense to it. I wondered if I had been one of the people he had watched her pick up. Didn't he try to stop her? Not just for me, but for any of the others? I then stopped that train of thought right in its tracks and looked at him sleeping. I remembered how he had written about how he couldn't put his feelings why he did it on paper. I wondered if the crazed scribbling throughout the rest of the pages was the real reason why. I shook my head, and looked out the window for a few minutes. I then went to Morris, bent over him, and put the money I took back in his hand. I left right afterward, closing the door behind me softly, not wanting to wake the dead.