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I was running down a bumpy road
at night, running down the middle, between the cars. They hooted their
horns as they splashed by me. When I realised I was dreaming, I struggled
to wake up.
It was a mistake. The first thing I became aware of was a dull but throbbing pain in my head, and a series of aches and pains in my joints. With a horrible sense of disgust, I realised that I was hungover. The awkward position of my body and uncomfortable angle of my head I gradually attributed to being laid face down on the settee. The coarse canvass scoured my face as I attempted to lift my banging head. With an almighty effort I succeeded in lifting one eyelid. It was not a pretty sight. The living room was unnaturally bright with the searing light of the sun at midday. Through painful blinks I surveyed the crumpled cans and spilling ashtrays of last night's session. A flimsy black object hanging from a wonky picture frame eventually came into focus. It was a bra, but whose ? I didn't bother to remember the antics of the night before, I couldn't manage it right then. Instead I used all my energy to rearrange my limbs into a sitting position and rubbed my horrible face. I felt wretched. The alcohol in my system reasserted itself so strongly that I could almost smell it. And yet, it wasn't merely a heady combination of lager and brandy, there was something sweet and noxious about it too. The smell became so strong that I realised it wasn't in my imagination alone. A dizzying inspection of the room drew my attention to the litter bin by the settee. Some bastard had thrown up in it. The sight of the carrot lumps and the rancid aroma almost induced me to contribute my own vomit to the congealing pile. I needed water if I was to survive this horror flick. I felt unable to move from the settee. My feet felt rooted to the floor, and my head seemed to be on some kind of bungee that snapped it back to centre when I looked around. But the need for water, combined with a mouth that felt and tasted like one of the over used ashtrays, forced me into action. A nightmare journey ensued, as I propelled myself into the kitchen. The chaos and foul debris I discovered there soon sent me back into the living room, with a glass of water in each shaking hand. With a miserable sigh, I flopped back onto the settee. I slurped eagerly at the water. I had hoped that it would not only ease the pain in my head, but wash down the worst flavours in my mouth too. Instead, it seemed to awaken them. The taste of bitter sweet spirits combined with old tobacco rushed around my mouth in a most distressing way. I decided to rest a while on the settee until I had consumed both pints of water. It was quiet and still, stuffy with bad air and heat from the sun. As I rested back on the settee and closed my eyes, it began. Somewhere, in the street below I suppose, the stuttering, piercing sound of a pneumatic drill shattered the silence. The noise penetrated my ears and hacked like a woodpecker at my brain. With a pathetic cry of anguish, I took the only form of action possible: I pulled a cushion over my head and went back to sleep, desperately hoping that the nightmare would be over when next I awoke. |
© Scarlet Fr 22 October 1999
| Note: This was a writing assignment. All I had to do was engage all five senses. In fact I invoked a sixth - disgust. If you don't think this piece of writing is revolting, there's something wrong with you ! |