Today’s daily prompt, amble, is a word I’ve used and overused in the past when I can’t find a better word to describe a character moving or walking slowly. But to amble is to move at a relaxed pace which doesn’t describe my character’s excruciating, hungover state as she descends a flight of stairs. I’ve toyed with the words totter, stagger, bumble, reel, stroll, drift, traipse, and ramble. Hmmm . . . For now, I’ll stick with amble until I find that perfect word to depict Allison, my protagonist’s slow descent downstairs. 🙂
Excerpt from Chapter Twelve of A Blog Affair
I don’t remember much about last night, or how I’d made it upstairs to bed. But I can tell by the heaviness of my head, sour grape taste in my mouth, and abdominal distress, I had too much to drink. My eyeballs hurt with the rush of light, aggravating my pounding head. I close them quickly and lie unmoving; surprised I’m still dressed and entangled in clothing. I imagine falling into bed, too drunk to undress and dissolving into a deep-intoxicated coma. Now regretting my date with the bottle, I lie hungover trying to recall remnants of last night, displaced with alcohol-damaged brain cells. Slowly, the night saunters into my memory—the conversation with Catrina, the photo of Senator Greg Murphy and his family. Had I spoken to someone on the phone? A vague memory of a male voice, I can’t grasp, hides behind fuzzy memories. Did I talk to CJ? Then I remember the flirtatious texting back and forth and grimace, hoping the conversation wasn’t too raunchy. God, I’ll never drink again.
I’m so thirsty; I could drink a gallon of water. Holding my head and rising from bed, blood rushes through cerebrum capillaries, exploding in waves, a thunderous bass drum. My head explodes with each slow step. I amble toward the door, down the stairs, into the kitchen, and pull a bottle of water from the fridge. In several large gulps, I guzzle the entire container like an athlete dehydrated with thirst. Oblivious to time, I stand frozen with squinted eyes not caring about the time or day only wanting the pounding to stop. I force my eyes open and scoff at the empty, glassy culprit on the counter. That’s what you get for drinking the entire bottle!
Copyright 2017 by E. Denise Billups
Book Cover Design by E. Denise Billups
Art: Courtesy of Edvard Munch