Ok. I started writing this on my mobile a few hours ago. It grew and took on a life of its own. So, after about three solid hours of work, this came out: #Writing He stood as steady as he could manage on the back deck of his house grunting warily at the disgusting brightness of the morning sun and subconsciously scratched at the old scar tissue on his right arm. The daily happy noises of subdivision life rose and echoed loudly all around him from the various surrounding brick houses and yards, all vying in vain for his distracted attention: the contractor sawing wood, the birds building nests, the distant groan of the jet engines overhead, the hum of a lawn mower and the offended reply of an alarmed dog, dismayed by the intrusive sound disrupting his morning nap. Last but not least, the persistent clanking sounds stemming from countless neighborhood wind chimes. On a normal day, he found these to be the absolute worst. But on this morning, in his hungover state, they all sounded like someone sadistically torturing an already fatally-wounded xylophone. It was the very last sound he wanted to hear. His legs were weakened as though they were still rubberized from the drunken stupor of the night before- wobbly, shaky, and barely able to offer support or any sensation of balance. It took all his energy just to drag his own body out of bed and out onto the deck, whatever his reason for doing so being instantly lost in his quest for fresh air. His stomach bathed and rolled in an ocean of its own acidic turmoil, both hungry and nauseous at the same time. His stormy head battled back and forth between having a heavy, full-on headache amidst the pressingly urgent (albeit futile) task of recalling last night. Every time he tried to force his mind to remember, his brain would fire back with a crippling throb from his brooding headache. The act etched itself into his mixed expression of consternation and dismay. He had been in this position countless mornings before, but this time it came with a gut-rotting whisper of cold dread. The dark, empty, glass bottles littering the interior of the house served as painful reminders. Merely hours before, they were cold and full of beer. They were all the friends he needed and had in this world last night. Now warm and empty, they mocked him for once again believing in their false promise of comfort and companionship. ...And reeked of a vague reminder of whatever dangers they left him vulnerable to. His hand flew to his face as though subconsciously rubbing at his stubble and distressed features could assist in his recollection. His fingertips dragged against something that felt sticky but on the verge of being dry and tacky residing the skin of his cheek. He pulled his fingers away instinctively and chanced a look. A deep crimson smear of blood stained his fingertips. His vexed brain chimed in with the optimistic thought that he simply cut himself shaving this morning. Then the inner cynic in him remained himself that he just felt the stubble on his own face and that he was in no shape or condition to competently hold a razor in one hand and stare at himself in the bathroom mirror at the same time. That feeling of dread sprung from like a hunting liones leaping from the perch in his stomach and growled fiercely at him. Oh god... He wearily groaned. So there was blood. And it did not seem like it was his. Just how much blood was there, exactly? The question was one he dreaded discovering the answer to, but he knew he needed to know anyway. That growing, clawing, gnarling sense of doom roared from his stomach up into his chest as if to triumphantly declare, See? I told you it was bad! He threw open the sliding glass door off the kitchen and dizzily stumbled on the flat tiles below his feet. His outstretched hand slapped against the fridge for balance and partially halted himself from falling flat on his face. His rubberized legs protested at the extra effort required of them to maintain balance and equilibrium. Even though he slowed the monstrous force and speed he stormed back into the house with, he still barely managed to stop himself from subsequently crashing again into the wall of the short hallway leading to the bathroom. His mind reminded him that he would get his answer to why there was blood on his face in due time, and there was no reason to wreck the house and make things worse then they already presumably were. The cynic inside his mind shot back at the optimist side of his psyche, with a defiant and challenging, Shut up! The lioness in his stomach just growled all the more persistently amidst all this chaos. He threw open the bathroom door only to come face to face with his own worried reflection in the mirror. No, it was someone else starring back at him. Some kind of monster. Blazing eyes, an open mouth, scruffy stubble, and a look of shear dread and fear. But more importantly, a blood stained face that turned his own blood to ice. The lioness of doom sitting inside his chest leapt with her razor sharp claws and vicious teeth attacked his every nerve. He staggered backwards helplessly raising a hand to his mouth, before his knees buckled under him and dropped him like a wet sack of laundry in front of the waiting toilet bowl. His stomach needed no invitation for what happened next.
Posted on: Mon, 25 Aug 2014 17:32:20 +0000
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