"What am I to do, yes, give me another beer, will you, "waking up. "This nightmare, soon to be ended, for sure."
"There you are, son" she says. Grandma found me. Strange, addressing me as son. I swing my beer at her, missing purposely, yet acknowledging my rage, starting to sob, breaking down, taking the end in the now. Pitying, overwhelmed and numbed.
Whagh, surrendering to the gauging of vomit, splashing, smearing the hard wood table, red cushion coated chairs and all compassionate grandma. "Burb," I feel better already. "Sorry, mom." Accepting, yet, raving at my indisputable grim destiny to come. I die, so what!