OUT

Chapter 3

Thursday, August 28th 2014

'Jesus Jack, éirí amach as an leaba sin! It's two a'clock in the afternoon!' He groaned, stirring in the bed, and buried his face in the pillow as his mother hurried across the room and tore open the curtains. 'Cá háit a bhfuair tú an feckin' traffic cone sin? As if we need anymore shite in this house!'

He rolled over the bed, turning his back to the beams of light blasting through the window, but after a few seconds, his eyes adjusted. There was, in fact, a huge orange traffic cone in the corner of the room, his suit jacket hanging off of it. He didn't remember much of his journey to the bed, but a trail of his clothes were scattered from the door to where he lay. 'Níl 'fhios 'am,' he replied groggily, clearing the sleep from his eyes, 'what time is it?'

'Time for you to get up, a mhac!' she replied as he reached for his phone, 'the fecking smella drink in here too. Get up and get showered! You're wasting the day! Mark's downstairs.'

He didn't understand his mother's obsession with getting out of bed. She would sooner see him lazing about the couch all day than lying in bed doing the same. He didn't get how or why there was a difference, but apparently there was, and it drove her around the bend.

'Ugh,' he groaned, clasping his throbbing forehead which was wet with sweat. A hangover hammered at the inside of his temples, which he knew would only get worse as the day went on. She tossed him a box of Paracetamol and handed him a cup of water from his dresser, 'gur'bh míle.'

His head was pounding, and his lips were so dry that they were cracking. The water - which wasn't fresh - had a thin film of dust on the surface from however many days it had been sitting on his dresser, but still tasted divine. It washed the dryness from his mouth, and what felt like a film of alcohol coating his teeth down his throat. He downed the entire pint in one breath, and handed it back to his mother.

'Brostaigh ort, I've your breakfast on...or should I say lunch.'

He dragged himself out of bed and struggled to the shower. He had his boxers on and still wore one of his socks from the day before. He stripped and climbed in.

The kitchen was hectic when he arrived down twenty minutes later, as it always was. Mark was sitting at the table with a glass of orange juice in front of him, and his mam was pottering about. As per, she seemed to have about ten tasks going in tandem, serving breakfast (lunch) while simultaneously preparing dinner. The kettle was whistling. The washing machine was rattling, shaking the drying dishes stacked up by the sink enough that they clinked together gently. There were two or three pots and pans on the go on the Agga at once, one of which had come to a boil and was steaming. The airfryer was on. The toaster had just popped. The radio was blaring. The extractor fan above the oven was humming. The place was chaotic, although she moved about calmly.

'Sit down there, a mhac,' she instructed, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.

Jack sat down at the head of the wooden table, littered with newspapers, breadcrumbs, and at the centre sat a bowl of fruit - with a few bananas that were starting to brown and a handful of small tangerines. The tablecloth was covered in circular coffee stains and scratches, and one of the legs was slightly shorter than the rest, meaning it would rock with a squeak if you placed too much of your weight onto that side of it - the folded up piece of paper that had been balancing it had shifted slightly, and the leg was no longer resting on it.

'How's the head?' smirked Mark, taking a sip from his glass. Jack shook his head, smiled and let out an exaggerated puff of air. 'That bad, huh?' Jack had vague recollections of tequila shots at the bar. He hadn't done them before and his face contorted with each of the three ingredients. That didn't stop him doing five or six however. He didn't want to think about his bank balance.