

When he woke up he never thought he'd have this day.  A thin haze gazed upon him as he lay in bed still.  The dryness of the air had left his lips parched overnight like a sudden case of dehydration.  Yet, he refused to answer the call of nature and get himself something which he could quaff, perhaps a modicum of water in a plastic cup.  As he fight with the daemons of the morning, he finally heeded the call and lept from his bed, throwing the masses of blankets, sheets and pillows into the air as if his bedchamber had been hit by a whirlwind of destruction.  His first course led him to the lavatory, where he was able to quench his thirst as well as ready himself for the onset for which no mortal could aptly prepare.  He cleansed the filth from his body and thought about the things which had transpired the previous night.  He had hoped those memories would slough away with the oils of his skin, yet no amount of scrubbing could take those memories from his head, nor could it make him feel clean.  Even as he scrubbed, he felt the pangs of being accused, judged and punished.  He knew what would happen, how the heavy hammer of justice would smash upon his freedom like lightening striking a tree and sending it's branches through the air.  Even with this in his memory, he accepted his fate.  He had earned it, and knew there was no going back.  As he return to the bedchamber in which he felt he had been apart from it for a fortnight.  He began to look at the clothes he had removed the night before laying upon his floor.  They were soiled and just the thought of cleaning them made his head pound like the hammer of justice he so feared.  He immediately decided he needed to destroy these forever, lest someone be able to find the evidence of the previous night.  He thought of ways in which to best destroy his evidence and decided upon the fireplace in his humble abode.  He thought to himself it was cold enough outside to not arouse suspicion, and there would be nothing left for anyone who might come looking.  With a heavy sigh like that of the beasts of the Serengeti he dressed himself for the coming day and took his previous day's clothing to the fireplace.  He threw them into the fireplace as the first knock came to the door; four solid and heavy thuds banging on the door reminding him of the feared hammer of justice.  Was it too early for Winston, the barrel-chested oaf, to be stopping by?  After a glance at the grandfather clock he knew it was, and began to shiver in terror.  Could this be his daemons, the ones he couldn't fight the previous night, reaping the evil which they had sown the previous night?

