Migraine Monologue

Once again, I was roused by the screeching sound of the ansaphone. Pound. Bang. Smack. My migraine grew stronger and longer. Once again late. Is it worth it? The fatigue deflated me. Agony. Dedication. “Na” I groaned, “Not today, that’s it.” For the last couple of weeks, the pain became more intense when I lay down or even reclined. All day, every day, work, work, work. I had enough! Is life really like this? At night, when I crawl into bed and rest my head on the pillow, exhausted from being on my feet and doing work all day, the throbbing in my head overwhelms my senses. Sleeping was my only escape from the trauma I’ve had for many years. I wanted to cough, but my lungs were aching for air, as it was surrounded by thick viscous substance.
Not realising it was actually vodka I had gulped down, but I didn’t mind as it gave me the extra bitter sweet boost, I graved. The same, mundane words came to my head, “One more sick-note, mister, and you’re finished. Fired.” The incursion I experienced from my boss was outrageous. Too much had happened. Restricted by my legs, I peered through the window and noticed a sea of obsidian clouds emerge from the distance. The foggy scattered cotton balls were full of tears that are just about to burst out into a million pieces. The crystal ice rain dropping onto my window I could almost see the reflection of my face, I couldn’t bare it, I looked away. What do I do next?
It was time to visit the place where it all happened, the fear closed upon me like the shutting of an eye, wrapped about me in a stifling embrace. The hairs on my back sprung up as a cold shiver quivered down my spine, my boss’ voice echoing in my mind yet again. I left the house around 12pm, the sky was still murky. I walked to the nearest car hire depot, hired a Vauxhall Astra.
Alone. Penniless. Destitute. That was it. All my money gone! I had nothing left. I was heading towards Leeds but as I stopped for the lights I saw a hitchhiker, I looked deep into his eyes and he looked back at me in the same way. He was around the same age as me: his hair cascading like a waterfall to his shoulders, his leather jacket tattered and a rustic looking backpack. I don’t know why, but I told him to get into the car. It was like my mind said, “Carry on” but my heart said, “Stop”.
He climbed into the car; you could see he was inundated as someone had stopped for him in this bitter wintry weather. I could smell his rancid odour; it uplifted the car, making me feel like I wanted to regurgitate. I needed my fag; I dug around my pocket for a minute before dragging out the lighter and the cigarette. He raised an eyebrow as I lit up the fag. I blew out a cloud of smoke into his face, causing him to cough. The real reason I lit a fag was to distinguish the bad odour in the