Dead at Daybreak

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He awoke abruptly out of an alcohol-sodden sleep, the pain in his ribs his first conscious sensation. Then the swollen eye and upper lip, the antiseptic, musty smell of the cell, the sour odor of his body, the salty taste of blood and old beer in his mouth.

And the relief.

Jigsaw pieces of the previous evening floated into his mind. The provocation, the annoyed faces, the anger – such normal, predictable motherfuckers, such decent, conventional pillars of the community.

He remained motionless, on the side that wasn’t painful, the hangover throbbing like a disease through his body.

Footsteps in the corridor outside, a key turning in the lock of the gray steel door, the grating of metal slicing through his head. Then the uniform stood there.

“Your attorney’s here,” the policeman said.

Slowly he turned on the bed. Opened one eye.

“Come.” A voice devoid of respect.

“I don’t have an attorney.” His voice sounded far away.

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