Awakening

I've never had a thousand pound elephant sit on my head. One morning I woke up fully expecting a face full of wrinkly elephant hyde to accompany the thousand pound headache dancing around in my skull. What circumstances brought on this unfortunate condition? Not drink, surprisingly enough. No, that would be far too lackluster a beginning to a story as unbelievable as the one I am about to unfold. To keep this story authentic I must tell it as I remember it, and it was not until later that I would remember the origins and events that precluded this headache.

I was draped over a doggy door stomach down, face flat on white and tan checkered kitchen linoleum; a rather awkward position I would not normally have maintained for more than a few seconds. Folded in half as I was, the blood in my body was sloshing around in my toes and my eyeballs, but I was not about to put weight on or look out of either until I had groaned, curled in on myself, coughed out a syrupy mess of liquid and let out a groan that would have made the undead envious. I could not even pinpoint the source of my discomfort, only that I was feeling alot of it... and it wasn't going away.

An inner monologue kicked in. It seemed I had to convince my brain to tell my body what to do. Step one, pull your face off the floor. My brain responded, my body strained, but my face would not rise. I gave up quickly as each attempt triggered a hammerblow to the back of my head. Instinctively switching strategies, I convinced my brain to focus my weight onto my feet and legs, groaning again as the doggy door slid across my belly and shoved my organs up into my lungs. Like a seesaw, my torso was forced to rise and my face came off the floor with an audible slurp. The rest was all physics, I could do nothing to prevent myself from tumbling bonelessly backwards off the doggy door and onto my mercifully carpeted floor.

All I could hear was thumping in my ears. My heart kicked into overtime, attempting to spread the blood back into my deprived and unfeeling body. It felt like electricy rather than blood was coursing through my veins, starting as minor senstation and growing into pulses of searing pain that made me horribly aware of the length and breadth of my cursed body. I felt my mouth open and God only knows what sound squeezed through my lips as limbs took on a will of their own, curling in tightly like a dying spider, futilely attempting to escape the throbbing pain. I don't know how long I lay there on the ground, but eventually the pain began to ebb and the thumping reduced to a bearable din. My brain began to regroup and started asking some questions.

What happened? Where am I? Who is still hitting me on the back of the head with a hammer? I was panting heavilly and I could feel the dryness in my mouth, so I closed my mouth to garner some moisture and swallow. I worked my tongue to aid the process and some moisture began to form. Along with the moisture came the distinct taste of blood. Panting again I tried to roll flat onto my back and bring my hands up to soothe my aching skull. My face was covered in a thick substance, dry in some places, sticky in others, that hardly moved as I rubbed my throbbing eyes. Peeling them open I squinted around me. A peach. It took a moment, but I realized peach was the color that covered walls. Familiar peach, like the color of my walls. Like the walls that rose up on either side of me and seamed into a bumpy textured roof with a peach seed, or rather, a brown ceiling fan dropping in and out of focus. Down by my feet was the doggy door and beyond that, a kitchen. My kitchen. I could barely see the telltale brown of my washed out counters and cabinets, faded from steaming rice and stained from oft spilled liquids that had been left to sit too long. To further verify my surroundings I groaned and rolled to the side, lolling my head back for a look at the wall behind me. As expected my front door loomed into view a few yards away, the dents from a wayward golf club in drunken hands clearly marking the barrier as my own. Home sweet home.

Somewhat relieved, with eyes tightly shut to the pain I completed the roll to my stomach and searched around to my right with a shaking arm. In a couple of gropes I found the rim of my bedroom door and floundered for a solid grip on the thin strip of wood. With a great heave I pulled myself up onto hands and knees, grunting as the altitude change again assaulted my brain and shifted my blood. But the headache was turning to dizziness and my circulation was finding it's equilibrium. My thoughts on the other hand, were reeling, trying to find a purchase on something. I need to find some water. What is that clinking sound? Why is it so dim in here? I think two of the three ceiling fan lights are burnt out. At that point I must have chosen my first thought as a focus; I was desperately thirsty. Turning slowly on hands and knees I made my way towards the doggy door. Where the hell was the dog, anyway? Dante should have made an appearance by now, his tongue never seemed to miss anything that came down below human knee level. How could Dante have let the limp form of his master straddle the doggy door all night without some whines for attention and a nudge or fifty. Could I really have ignored all that?

Struggling with the latch, the doggy door finally released from it's wedged position. I bounced the door aside awkwardly and plowed through, stumbling to the edge of the linoleum as I went up onto knees only and fell against the corner of the wall. The left turn that would take me to the bathroom and the water I so desperately craved was right in front of me! My body started to naturally go into a practiced rythym as I moved off the wall, evidently remembering the path I had stumbed on late drunken nights or early hung over mornings. Walking on my knees I made it to the bathroom door and leaned to grasp the door handle, using it to support my weight. The door was already open a crack and unexpectedly swung wide, banging hard against the door jamb with my full weight of force upon it and leaving me panting and stretched along it's breadth. Levering myself I rose to a stand, then flung myself over the counter and threw on the faucet.

The feeling of the water was pure and cool on my fingers. My body melted towards the touch of that thick, smooth water from the moment it caressed my fingertips. A primal groan sagged me against the counter. Suddenly steady hands cuppped the water and eased it upwards as I lowered my face, rubbing, scrubbing and rinsing away the thickness. Parched lips found refuge and sucked up the water hungrily, gorging with complete satisfaction. Nimble fingers were there as well, massaging away the tesion behind my skin and trying to coax my eyes out from their painful retreat. Taking deep breaths, the liquid dripped from my face into the sink. I felt as if some semblance of myself had been returned to me. My eyes opened tentatively and blinked away the wetness. The sink was covered in blood.

My eyes shot up to the mirror. Thin rivulets of blood and water dripped from my now slicked hair, streaking down my face and dropping to the white basin. There were no marks on my face, as far as I could tell. My high cheekbones and narrow, angular jaw were void of injury. Both my hazel eyes stared back at me in wide horror, searching for signs of injury upon my tall nose and open mouth. There was blood to be sure, but no gashes, cuts or other visible sources. Dipping my head to the left I looked up into my hair and finally found what I was looking for. A long, curving cut started in the hairline above my temple and stretched nearly to my ear. As if finding the wound had refreshed the pain, I winced and cradled my head. What on earth could have done that?

I leaned past the edge of the counter and over the toilet, reaching for the roll of toilet paper mounted on the side of the cupboards. My hand hit the empty tube. I looked down at the empty tube in disbelief for just a moment before sharply intaking a breath and baring my teeth. Just once! Just once, I would have loved to see a fresh new roll on that cursed tube. I didn't think it unreasonable to ask that of my roommates, and if they had gotten it right just this one time I would have utterly and wholeheartedly forgiven them for any and all suffering they had ever caused me in the realm of toilet paper deprivation. Instead I ended up cursing them and vowing my retribution would be swift while I grabbed a blue towel off the rack and balled it up to place over my gashed head. Returning to the mirror, I looked at myself once more, pulling the towel back a couple of times to examine the rate of bloodloss. It didn't seem too bad, if anything my towel work was threatening to re-open the mostly clotted wound, but the soft pressure felt good so I kept the towl applied as I went back into the hall. I suddenly realized how normal the moment had become. My body and mind had gone back into routine, pulled out of the confusion of my awakening.

I paused for a moment on the precipice of the corner dividing the hallway from the kitchen, unsure of my destination. My mental faculties starting to work things through, I leaned heavily on the wall and gathered my thoughts. The doggy door lay sprawled in the hall, askew and partially raised like a poorly made lean to. To the left was my kitchen, I could see the light from what I assumed was the morning coming in through the solitary kitchen window. All the lights were off, I realized, but there was certainly enough light to see clearly. There was a mostly dried pool of blood on the linoleum less than a yard from where I stood. The pool was smeared slightly and a despairing look down told me I had dragged my foot through it on my way to the washroom. That train of thought and scrutiny led me to a full body examination. I held out my arms and angled the front of my brown striped sweater slightly to find dark stains on both, spotches of stiff material that I could only assume was more dried blood. The knee of my light blue jeans was ripped, my flesh beneath skinned and raw. There was dried mud on the sides of my brown dress shoes, which I found odd as I observed. There was no other mud on my clothes, except on the back cuffs of my jeans hanging on the back of my shoes. I wasn't dressed for cross country travel. Brushing here and there on my body to try to improve things I finally realized the effort was futile and made up my mind to head to my room where I could get out of these tattered and bloody rags and hopefully figure out the extent of my injuries.

Still analyzing the remains of my outfit, my body went back into automation as I shuffled down the hall and pushed through the half opened door to my room. The soccer poster on my door fluttered as air snaked in behind it and I heard a familiar whine from my bed. Dante! The dog's head came up at the same time mine did, but there was no excitement to his expression and no further movement. Just a sad, flat, unblinking look as his gaze fixed me and his furrowed brow locked. I started to realise he was not alone on the bed and the rest of the room began to come into focus. Everything in the room seemed as I had left it, disheveled but relatively tidy. The closet was open on one side with some dirty clothes seeping out from the dirty clothes bin. The desk in the corner which harbored my computer was cluttered with banking pages and opened envelopes, not to mention books, candy and memorabilia. The bed seemed as I had left it as well, with one very large difference...