The birds softly chirped above my head. The wind tickled the leaves in the overhanging boughs above my prone body. And the ants formed a long queue into my left ear as they searched for food, tickling as they went.
I screamed and shot up into a seated position as I belted the side of my head with my fist in a vain attempt to delouse my ear. I found myself at the town common in some unnamed hamlet with little else to describe it save a tiny well, so I sprinted to the well, scooped out handfuls of water, and splashed it all over my face, one vengeful thought coursing through my drunken skull: Drown the little buggers!
I sighed contentedly as I plopped down next to the well and tilted my head to one side, to drain my ear of any remaining ant corpses.
I sat there for a moment, deciding whether or not the trees would stop spinning around me before I vomited, when I realized the townsfolk had taken a keen interest in me. I was used to such rude awakenings in strange surroundings, and had exhibited such behavior for many months, and I was familiar with the Blood Wine hangover.
The townsfolk, however, seemed much less in a fair mood about my vulgar display. They gawked and sneered, keeping to the far end of the road as they passed. A few snickered to themselves, most likely, but I was far too hungover to hear any disparaging comments they might have made -- especially since I had heard them all before. The first thing I lost to my addiction was pride; I cared not.
What's that, you might ask, addicted to Blood Wine? Impossible! The very thought of drinking such a vile concoction made many a sturdy stomach turn; nobody gets addicted to something that is guaranteed to make them hurl.
This, of course, is a very true and obvious statement. One that I am all too familiar with.
There is no excuse for my burden, and I never give one, for no one would believe me anyway. I am pitied, abhorred, a laughingstock.
I am also cursed.
Oh, of course! A curse, you say. That makes sense; I mean, who would drink Blood Wine willingly? But then... who would be so devilish as to curse someone with a Blood Wine addiction? A low blow indeed.
And there is a story to that, one which I will soon explain, but first I deemed it necessary to find my clothes -- the townsfolk were getting snarky.
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author
