How many times.

My eyes slit open with the blasted sound of my alarm. Let in with the light, a headache the size of the 1906 earthquake shakes my consciousness. Shatters me to the core.

It takes me the longest 10 seconds in the known universe to realize it is Sunday.

And I kill the snooze.

I tuck the curtains further into the crevices of the window frame to ban the light of the new day and bury my face into the stale smell of my alcohol-breath-infused pillow. Eau de whiskey soda.

A deep breath in.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Exhale.
Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

A futile attempt to expel the fleeting half memories from the night before. Clear my mind and settle back into dreamland.

The flashes are persistent, however. 

The agonizing subtle buzz of a mosquito caught indoors fluttering around your head,

  Threatening to bite.

I rub my temples with both index fingers. Dry dull dirt flakes from underneath my fingernails. 

Another soft exhale as the ache and incidents twist through my brain. Stopping only to jab gently at the corners of my cognizance. Prick painfully upon each blink of the eye.

Clenching my eyelids tighter only makes each flashback brighter.

[then]

The shouting.

The argument

  -- The same damn argument -- 

The tired insults.

The stale slurs.

The exasperated attacks.

She haunted me in the same way she did every evening.

Besieging me with her battery.

Agonizing me with her abuse.

As always, it apexed with physical blows.

Equally dispensed and absorbed.

But it was the words that cut the most.

Stinging sweetly like lemon in a papercut.

We were both sweaty and spent. 

Her hair frazzled -- frayed strands escaping her usually picture-perfect ponytail.

She snarled her final slander with a smile.

  Sailed the air between us and hit me with a slap.

The Groundhog's Day sequence of events taunted me and my rage exploded.

Again.

Staggered forward with a blindness I still can't seem to comprehend.

Strong fingers to slight neck. 

Struggling.

Straining.

Sobbing.
And finally silence.

We lay tangled on the floor.

Limbs like Twister.

The only breath left -- my own.

[later]

It's almost dawn when the body is (again) buried in the backyard. 

I leave the shovel next to the shallow grave.

(I'll see you tomorrow, I nod to the inanimate object, giving it the finger-guns.)

As I crawl into bed, I fall completely as-is.

Dusty jeans. Dirt-stained t-shirt.

[now]

As I slowly realize that sleep will be impossible, I flip over and curl fetal-like to the outside of the bed.

Her cold arm reaches familiarly around my side.

We spoon for a few long minutes.

And while I feel the anger bubble up, I also relish in the Stockholm-like intimacy.

"How many goddam times do I have to kill you?" I spit in a half-whisper, still giving her nothing but my back.

"No idea," she sighs.

"But please,

  For the love of God,

Keep trying."