It's 3:00 AM

Are we still walking?

Has it been nights? days?

We keep walking.

I ask him how long. He tells me it's been 2 hours. I can't remember what time we left. My heads spinning without an anchor. Reality's a slideshow skipping between scratched panels.

But I can hear the voices. 

Voices in the background. Like static from a bad TV.

I'm not thinking straight. What time is it now? I ask what time. He tells me its 3 am. I try to clear the fog from my mind. The worlds still blurred, like alcohol stained breath coughed on a cold window.

The voices behind us continue.

It's annoying. Aggravating. Itching.

They pound at the back of my head like a nail gun to a two by four. They suck in air, push it out. The nail tares through wood like their shouts rip the night.

I quicken my pace and he steps up to match.

At least he's still walking with me.

He's always been a good friend.

The shouts don't leave, they just keep growing. It’s clearer now. Like mice. A scurry. A Scrape. The  familiar shuffle of feet on concrete.

I could run, but I'm tired. I don't know how far we walked. Has it been miles? Can the distance be measured? I’m tired. I’m tired and it’s there. It puts a ripple through my mind like a boulder to a pond. Slowly it's stirring. I can feel something rising inside my head. Can feel it filling with booze induced bravado. It whispers to me. Tells me stories of great adventure. It tells me I can do this. It licks at my ear and breathes good luck. 

He stops walking.

I stop beside him. 

"We in?" I ask.

"All in" he says.

It's the response I expect. 

I shift my weight and make the world turn. I twist it to face the relentless noise. The slideshow breaks and I’m staring at blackness and sound. 

Maybe not.

An ooze. It shifts. Dances. Forms itself.

I look beside me.

He’s still there. He always was a good friend.

I know we’re ready.