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Phoenix groaned, slumped limply across the couch, with his feet over one arm rest and one of his arms flopped over the side. There was a scattering of bottles strewn across the coffee table that he couldn’t count. Every time he looked at them his visions swam and they alternately doubled and halved.
Being drunk had stopped being enjoyable more than an hour ago, and passed into abject misery. And yet he’d kept on drinking. Kept in until he felt too dizzy to even lift the last bottle to his lips. It had spilled somewhere on the couch under him.
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Written for @febuwhump day 18 prompt: too weak to move.
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