He snores loudly against my neck, our bodies intertwined like acrobatic performers at Cirque du Soleil. I tend to call it “hardcore cuddling” and he always laughs. Tonight I am restless, thoughts overpowering the ease of sleep. I blame it on my parents and all of the other people who make up my genetic history. Maybe holding them responsible for my mental instability is wrong, but it allows me to feel better on nights like these. The fan blades move quickly in rotation, but the room still feels humid and unforgiving. I question my existence, doubt everyone. Question why I’m questioning, doubt myself. Who knows? Maybe a lot of people struggle with the same afflictions as I do, but I doubt that as well.

I disentangle myself from his massive arms, unwrap his tree-trunk sized legs from around my petite frame, and scurry into the kitchen. Most people count sheep or drink warm milk. I prefer a mixture of alcohol and Ambien. The pantry door squeaks as I thrust it open. I reach into the darkness for the bottle, ignoring the light switch to my left. With the cap unscrewed I take a swig. Whiskey always takes my breath away, satisfying me more than any man ever has. Two pills, and five gulps later I waltz back into his bedroom ready for slumber. Snoring louder now, and embracing a pillow, I realize my absence did not—and would not—ever affect him…whether asleep or awake. In the morning I would pack my things, his bottle of Jack included.

Submitted by Ashley Juggs via the whisky monologues