Hemingway. (ernestoic) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2013-09-13 21:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | !open |
Who? Ernest Hemingway & OPEN
Where? The pub
When? Friday night
What? Drinking, drinking, drinking...
Status? Open, ongoing.
Rating? Potentially high, bad language at least.
Hemingway was drunk.
It was a nice sort of drunk, the pain in his leg completely numbed, his cheeks warmed, his emotions dulled, and the overwhelming exhaustion temporarily at bay.
He was sick of this. Sick of using crutches, the lack of sleep, the nightmares, the way his son just cried for his mother all of the time, the fact that he'd hardly got any damn writing done since Pamplona. This wasn't a life. This place made no damn sense. It would be different if he could do something- if he could go hunting, or fishing, or hiking- but no, he just had to hobble around like a cripple.
He wished a better door would open. Paris. Venice. Tanzania. Anywhere but this hell hole.
He poured himself another brandy, and flicked over the page of his manuscript, the letters dancing across the page, refusing to make themselves clear.
"Damn it to hell!" he exclaimed suddenly, banging a fist against the tabletop in fury.