I awoke at 5:42 in the morning, head pounding after I finally regained consciousness. I dragged myself out of my bed, which was already stripped of its soiled sheets, barely missing cutting my foot on a broken vodka bottle. I’m surprised it wasn’t something cheaper. I walked over to the one grimy window in my apartment, pushing it open, so I could see down into the street. Men and children were sleeping in damp cardboard boxes, and the cool air and stench bitterly stung against my skin. I grabbed my head in my hands out of pity, but more so due to the fact that I was fighting a grand hangover. I couldn’t remember what had happened last night, but that feeling of emptiness wasn’t new. I continued to drown myself in alcohol, lusting for something I could never have. I could never have a future, simply because I never had a past. I sat down on the edge of my bed, still holding my head, feeling like I would vomit from the pain. I retrieved a half-empty coffee mug from my pathetic nightstand. Funny. Maybe furniture starts to look like its owner… I didn’t know how it got there, the coffee. Maybe I made it last night. Maybe I didn’t. I couldn’t tell you. I splashed the freezing liquid on my face, seeing as how my water’s been out for God knows how long. I looked over toward my nightstand again, looking at a crumpled piece of paper on its edge. There’s a reason I don’t remember anything. It’s because don’t like to. That paper has the answers to questions it kills me to ask. It has the answers to my past. I don’t like to remember.