I'll be right here waiting for you...

This is my second week participating in the Indie Ink writing challenge and I was challenged by cope. I'm going to post the challenge after my response, because I am curious if I was hit or miss on this challenge.

  I wake up on the third morning to the still uncomfortable silence. I blink into the harsh sunlight. I wonder why I didn't have the sense to draw the curtains before I went to sleep, but then again if I had gone "to sleep" in any conventional fashion, then maybe I would have thought to. It took a concoction of bourbon, mixed with a few klonopin and an ambien chaser to put me down last night.
 

As my eyes blink in the morning, I sit up and physically try to shake off the remnants of my new night time ritual. I long again for that short, blissful moment I have when I'm just waking and everything is okay... before I roll over to reality, and to the emptiness which knocks the wind out of me like a kick to the stomach. I long for the security blanket of sleep, clinging to it's comfort as a child does. I lean back into the soft, forgiving pillows. The smells of the bed envelope me, and I breathe them in.
 

Inhale... faint smells of shampoo...exhale...hair matted and bloody... inhale... faint smells of after shave... exhale... that face, eyes wide and mouth gasping for air... inhale... smells growing fainter with each passing day... exhale... the vivid recollection of that night, and of all it’s horror. The bed is almost a living, breathing reminder of the life and breath that no longer exist. The fading smells are my penance, and the emptiness from which they stem the result of my crime.
 

I hear a car outside, and every time I do I'm certain it's the police, and that they've finally come for me. I take the bottle of klonopin off of the nightstand, and pop two in my mouth still dry from sleep. I professionally maneuver them down my throat without the aid of water. Their affect is not immediate, but still I feel calmer knowing of their impending relief. I feel confident enough to peel myself out of bed and sneak a peek out of the window so I can see the blue and red flashing lights and am somewhat grateful by their absence. Then again, I know the relief that would come from their arrival, and the knowledge that this part of the nightmare has drawn to a close.
 

They have to come. I need them to come. They need to put an end to this chapter so I can move onto the next. I am too much of a coward to call them myself, but I also smart enough to know that the arrival of some form of law authority is immanent.
 

I retreat into the bathroom, and take solace in the safety of the surrounding ceramic tiles, and the stability of the shiny metal fixtures around me. I turn on the water, letting it run hot, and watch the steam surround me and fog up the mirror. I am grateful that I can no longer see myself in it. Grateful that I cannot see what I have become.
 

I grab my toothbrush from it’s holder, glancing at the second toothbrush next to it, and brush my mouth clean of the film the pills have left behind. I step into the shower hoping to achieve the impossible- to physically cleanse myself of this nightmare with simple soap and water. I grab the shampoo that is not mine, then the soap. As their smells tortuously fill my senses, I am reminded of a happier time before the twists and turns of this life had led us fatefully to that night... where three days ago I killed the we and became just me.
 

I step out of the shower, grab a clean towel, and dry off. I wrap myself in his robe, and venture back into the bedroom. Exhausted from the shower, I pour myself a morning glass of bourbon and pop another klonopin. The bourbon clashes with the taste of toothpaste in my mouth, and I realize that my night time ritual is taking over my morning. Soon it will rule my day and I think "Fuck it, why not?”
 

As the warm fuzzies set in equally from the pills and the booze, I sit by the window. I wait and I watch for them to come for me, and rescue me from this self inflicted hell on earth that I am living in now.  

My challenge this week was:

A first person story in which the character has just committed a murder, but you cannot mention anything about the murder, death, motives, the victim etc. etc.