He woke up under the urinal with his front tooth chipped and lips bleeding. The blood was congealing to him to the surface below. He realizes he must have been here awhile. The place where his cheek is making love to the floor smells of other men and he wishes he had the mind to get up and run from this place or at least wash the stale piss from his face.
He didn’t give a shit about anything anymore. Look what that stupid bitch had done to him….again. Why the fuck does he continue to go back to her for more? His dick knows the answer and somehow never relays this to his brain because hell if they would do this over and over again if they were on the same page. Or, maybe they would. At this point he was unsure of anything.
He looks over at his twisted fingers and bruised knuckles. In their grip is a tiny magazine he remembered picking up from the top of the urinal. It wasn’t full of Jesus like the usual ones, but little poems. He thought that was weird. What dude wants to read poems with his cock in his hand? What dude wants to read poems while he is drunk for that matter? Apparently, he thought, I’m that sort of dude, but look what it got me….busted teeth and a mouth full of urine water.
The little magazine stared at him in his dead eye from his mutilated hand. He wondered if his neck was broken and maybe he couldn’t get up or if he was just sick to death of repeating his miseries. He just lay there breathing in the disrespect of other men, men just like him and thought considering his actions in life, this was as good a penance as any other.