Awake

(i.e. The World's Worst Hangover)

I woke up screaming. Booming thunder and blinding lightning rip me from my slumber like  breakfast in bed with a side of hand grenade sausage. There I sat upright, my skin crawling, body shaking, drenched in sweat. Cold, icy sweat dripping, soaking the mattress, what was easily a twenty-year-old rusty box spring, creaking and waning at every slightest shift of my weight. Desperately catching my breath, I took a look around, but my vision was so foggy and muddled the only thing I could see beyond the pitch-black darkness was the intense neon light of the sign for the after-hours speakeasy across the street, which burnt a vindictive ruby hue that stung at my eyes.  The illumination’s only egress into the room was slicing through the beaten-up shutter shades, scrawling a crimson vector diagonally along the floor, stretching over the door, and arching onto the ceiling where the pattern blended into the darkness leaving behind a jagged dagger shape aimed down at me. The whole scene was akin to bloody claw marks left behind by some demonic entity being dragged back to Hell. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the light was somehow warning me, the red lines cutting the room in half and painted over the door as if it were telling me, “Don’t even think about it, stay in bed, nothing good is awaiting you on the other side...” Maybe if my head wasn’t ringing like an air raid siren I might’ve listened, but I doubt it. I was never one for being told what to do, I never listened to cops, teachers, preachers, or even the weather man. I’ll be damned if I was gonna let some high-and-mighty lightbulb boss me around. 

My brain made of lead, my legs of frosted iron, and my arms of shattered glass, I fought to get out of the bed. With a tortured wave of pins and needles my legs swung limply off the side of the mattress. My muscles felt like they were each individually being squeezed in a vise all at once. Through a festering ache of resistance and more than a few spasms and cramps my body grievously protested but I had to get up. I had to figure out what was going on, and shit, maybe call an ambulance. 

 As my eyes began to adjust to the darkness, I found that the room wasn’t much larger than the twin bed itself. I spied a short stack of musty books at my feet, towering over an array of beer cans and empty bottles of dime store bourbon. Beside it, standing on top of its box was a 20-inch TCL Roku blanketed with a fuzzy layer of dust like a felt tombstone. The Roku was plugged into an outlet on the wall vandalized with a litany of lazy, haphazard engravings cast upon its cover. Displayed in the corner; ragged shirts, crusty socks, and soiled boxers were spilling out of a worn velvet suitcase onto the spotted carpet. I swore I witnessed the skitter of a cockroach or two, but wasn’t sure if it was that or the jagged spastic distortion of shadows as a result of the hangover ripping into my last remaining brain cell. The last thing that caught my eye was a stout square box acting as a nightstand next to my slab of a bed. Atop of it laid a leaning tower of crumpled tissues, the remnants of some sort of pill all crushed up with its powder caked over a Dave and Busters power card. Beside that was one of those frumpy little cardboard matchbooks and a battered carton of American Spirits. A preternatural surge of strength leapt through me at the carton and I pried it open. One and a half left. Thank Christ, if there is a God I owe him a kiss on his tip. 

I sat the butt of the one whole cig on my lip and tried one of the two frumpy little matches left in the frumpy little book. Unfortunately, I still hadn’t regained the proper bloodflow to my unsteady hand and the match’s frumpy little head snapped off.  The second I had a little luck with but with record-breaking speed it sizzled and burnt out before I could catch the stale tobacco. Dear God, you can forget about that kiss.

I wasn’t confident about where I was, but there was a familiarity to it. I knew this room, yet I had no memory of it to recall.  The same questions kept replaying in my mind, “Where am I? What is going on? Why does everything hurt? Is this what dying feels like? Am I already dead? What in the HELL is going on?”

Then it struck me, “Matter of fact, who am I?” 

I tried to think but had trouble on account of the ringing in my head. I rubbed at my temples, trying to focus, really put my finger on it so to speak, but no luck. If I’d ever even had a name in the first place it was lost to me, now. 

That’s when the door creaked open just a crack. If my nerves weren’t all on fire I might’ve jumped at the sound of it. Could swear it was as just as earth-shattering as the thunder that signaled my abrupt return to this grim reality. Was I alone? Sure didn’t feel like it. Just one of those things, a premonition like I was being watched, every ache, twitch, and intimate detail of my agony on display for some malignant viewer, an invisible schadenfreuder invading my haunted privacy. God, how the hell could I remember premonitions and schadenfreude but not my own fucking name! I grit my teeth and feebly pounded a fist on the meat of my thigh in frustration and that’s when my brain made like Nagasaki and went full atomic on my skull. 

My head adopted the role of a judge holding me in contempt, repeatedly rapping their gavel, which had the size and weight of an anvil, against my temples. Each hit went off like a 9-bang spitting a white hot blaze into my eye sockets. I gripped my face in my hands, my elbows feebly anchored atop my trembling knees, and had no choice but to weather the hurricane until it passed. Once the pounding eased to a heavy throb and I caught my shallow breath, I wretched my head up from my palms to be greeted with a view of the empty blackness of another room as the door was now wide open. The red lines that had painted the door now partially extended out into the newfound darkness, like a bloody crosswalk leading into damnation.

A reminiscence suddenly came over me in layered excerpts, my mind scraping away at the thick clouds of brainfog like ice on the windshield of my memory. Following suit with my aforementioned adversity to authority, when I was a boy I was quite the trouble maker and had built up quite the infamous reputation. All the teachers, parents, and other adults always greeted me with dirty looks, scowls of disgust and contempt. That is except for the crossing guard who  was stationed at the crosswalk out front before and after school. She was the one adult that always greeted me with a smile. She had been the crossing guard for over fifteen years, she knew my older brother, too. Lil’ Sonny, how could I forget about you? Everyday I would round the corner of a white house with this tall hedge that was always in need of a trim, so much so you couldn’t see around it and you’d have to step into the gutter or the street to get around it. I would spy that neon orange and yellow striped vest through its leaves and as I cleared that corner that crossing guard would wave at me with her whole arm, flashing this huge toothy grin. Big, bright, ivory teeth, she had. She loved her teeth, prided herself on, “a life lived cavity-free.”

One Monday, I decided to play a trick on her and I walked up an extra block past the street that ended with the white house and the big hedge so I could come around the opposite side and surprise her. She would never see it coming and I hoped to get a nice loud scream out of her. I was so excited I ran down the street so I could come around that corner extra energetic and explosive. When I rounded the corner I leapt out initiating an exclamation but froze, falling silent mid-shout in a hoarse and abrupt diminuendo before my feet even landed on the pavement. A crowd of parents and their children was building up around a perimeter of yellow tape encircling a trio of County Sheriff’s squad cars and an ambulance. The EMTs were hastily finishing up the  loading of a cadaver onto a stretcher and into their vehicle. They closed up the doors and prepared to leave. A glint of orange and yellow caught my eye and I turned to the crosswalk. Amongst some glass and the splinterings of a radiator grille laid the shredded remains of that vest. Only there were streaks and spots of red all over it. There was more red pooled beside it, blood, the first and only time I’d ever seen so much in person. Sprinkled about the red were a handful of some white bits, which I thought were paint chips or gravel from the crosswalk at first, but as I got closer realized the bits were much brighter and whiter than the paint on the asphalt. Because they were teeth. The crossing guard’s.

About twenty minutes before I showed up she was guarding her first litter of students along the crosswalk when some manic alcoholic in a Chevy took the turn around the corner of that white house with the big hedge a little too quickly and that was it. If only I could remember her name. I wonder if Sonny would know?

 Reality crept back at the creak of a floorboard out in the darkness and an impulsive ambition to investigate took hold of me. I did my best to ignore the crippling pain as I planted my feet on the floor. My legs wobbled as I stood, threatening to give out on me, but the bedroom being as small as it was, I managed to catch myself in the open doorway mid-collapse and regain what little balance I had. 

I gripped the doorway as if for my mortal soul and another subtle memory lingered in; of how Uma Thurman’s legs were limp after coming out of her coma in Kill Bill. Had I been in a coma? If so, for how long? Not too long, otherwise I might’ve well starved or maybe choked to death. Even if it had been days or weeks, how come nobody had come to check on me? Then again, I still wasn’t sure I was the only one in here. Perhaps I was being held prisoner? If not by an undisclosed captor, my own body sure seemed to be pursuing one Hell of a career in corrections.

A biting heat began to irradiate from within my forearms as my fingers quivered from supporting my weight. Bickering back and forth, my thighs and shoulders fought for attention like jealous infantile siblings throwing competing tantrums. At that moment, I felt like their father pulling up to a drive-thru to order a single black coffee and denying any requests for happy meals. Stone-faced, spine and wrists like rubber, I kept my foot on the gas and leaned into the wall with my forearms. Afraid to lift my feet from the ground, I shuffled in a mad stumble against the wall. Palms flat against the mortar, searching for salvation, it seemed like an hour passed of scraping my skin on the gritty brick until salvation was found, in a cool, steely light switch in the up position. 

My left hand brushed up against the switch and I hastily swiped down. With a flicker and a pop, the bulb in the fixture above spat glass and sparks down at me. With that, my legs finally gave out and I found myself once again falling into a memory. 

The light of my bedroom flicks on, not the same bedroom from before but the one at my parents house, when I was seventeen. I open my eyes, whipping around to discover who has interrupted my rest. It’s Sonny, he is decked out in camo from head to toe, a single chevron over his shoulder. I’m so happy to see him, we hug and if it weren’t for his bootcamp muscles I would’ve been able to hold him there, to keep him from leaving, from being deployed. We stay up all night catching up and drinking some PBR he bought off one of his older buddies. The morning light inches up the horizon and he has to go. One more hug and I hop back in bed, he motions for the light switch and asks me if I want it on or off, I motion down for off and the lights go out, he shoots me a wink and closes the door. He never came home. Guess it wasn’t that I forgot about you after all, huh, pal?

I open my eyes and I’m at the mercy of the wall, slumped in a hobble against the cold brick. Exclaiming in response, I curse the light fixture’s mother and take a breath. My desperate howl of fear and contempt draws my focus to my overwhelmingly dry mouth. I happened to regain some fortitude at the commotion and I found myself able to stand back up in a slouch, still supporting myself against the wall but at least my feet were holding firm. My vision readjusted and I sought the red lines creeping from the bedroom leading to a round dining table in the center of the room, beyond that the resemblance of a kitchen became evident. A kitchen with a sink.

Head throbbing, ears ringing, heart pounding, I pushed myself off the wall. Staggering, my bones threatened to shatter with each step. I crash-landed, resting my torso on the table. 

This must be the world’s worst hangover, yet. I thought. Then I cursed at myself for remembering what hangovers, light switches, crossing guards and Kill Bill were, yet not my own damn name. An audible drip secreted from the spout of the kitchen sink and my focus realigned. 

From the table I propelled my body to the sink, barely managing to hold myself up with my whimpering arms. I leaned down onto my right elbow and raised my left, straining to reach out and grip the spigot. Just holding my hand out in front of me sent a spark of heat through my shoulders. I held my breath in an attempt to prolong my endurance and latched my hand onto the spigot’s icy steel handle. Gasping for air, I took a sec to catch my breath, suspending myself like a bridge over the sink. I took a deep breath and steadily exhaled as I lowered my head under the faucet. I tugged at it to turn and it refused to budge. It fought me, remiss to submit. I fought back as ineptly as I could, channeling all my worldly force into my left hand. I fought so hard I could feel my lips starting to sweat, a couple of salty drops fell into the drain from a grimy tendril of oily hair hanging over my face. I twisted at the spigot with all my might, now cursing at its mother, cursing at my own mother, practically spraining my wrist until I felt like I was going to faint. My right arm felt like it was going to split in half from supporting all of my weight when the spigot finally loosened up.

The counter buzzed as the pipes shook beneath. A dollop of chunky black molasses garnished with old hair slid out of the spout, plopping onto the corner of my mouth. A foul stench with a strength far greater than I could muster instantly welled up violated my nostrils. 

I gagged, turning my head to allow the faucet gunk to slide into the sink with a hearty tink. With nothing in my stomach to vomit I broke into a violent and convulsive dry heave, my body performing a whole new brand of pain inducing convulsions. I fell to my knees unable to compete with waves of cramps and spasms that were commandeering my torso and limbs. In between wheezes and gasps my lungs attempted to hop out of my chest with each spit and mucus trailing cough. 

An antagonistic drummer beat out their frustration on the surface of my brain. Pinching my temples, I began crawling my way towards the front door. If I couldn’t get water in this room, maybe I could find a bathroom outside, or someone to help me. Using the table again I slowly graduated to a meek shuffle which carried me to about a foot away from the door when a knock came from the other side.

“Joe?” The warm, gentle, alluring voice of a woman pleaded. “Are you home?” 

Hesitantly, I, now assuming myself to be Joe, approached the door. My hands trembled as I sloppily groped the knob and gave it a strained turn. Cracking the door just enough to peer through, I took a peek at my visitor. 

Sleek, ebony high-heeled leather boots glistened out in the hallway, met by silky caramel-mocha legs in a navy-blue short skirt. A long maroon rain jacket tightly hugged her waist. She had jet-black hair that rested over her bosom, dripping wet from the rain outside. Around her neck, a sterling silver chain dangled an Ankh medallion in between her breasts. Meeting her gaze with my own, I felt that her pale blue eyes could drop me dead in an instant, and perhaps her inviting cherry lips could revive me again in half the time. 

“Sheena?”

Her name came out of my mouth without a thought. How did I know her name, when I couldn’t even recall if I had one or not?

“Are you okay, Joey?” She pressed her fingertips against the door and eased it open the rest of the way herself and strutted in. I might’ve fought her on it if I had the strength but judging by the sway of her hips and the eloquent clop of her boots as she strode over the hardwood floor, I doubt it. 

I hadn’t noticed before, but she was cradling a slender brown paper bag. She set it on the counter next to the fridge. “You sounded totally devastated over the phone.” Phone? I hadn’t seen one anywhere in here, and of course, I had no memory of calling her either. 

“Yeah, uh, sorry, I’m not doin’ too hot right now.” I half-heartedly replied, gripping my forehead. I may have known her name, but that was all that came to mind when I looked at her. Except when my gaze would drift down to her skirt, that gave me a few other ideas, which only made the drummer beats in my head heavier. 

“Well then, what’re you doing up? Here, sit.” She took my hands in hers and guided me to one of two chairs set by the table. “You need some water.” She started to rifle through the cabinets. I tried to tell her not to use the faucet, but before I could get the words out, a full glass of water was set down before me.

“Thanks...” I stated questionably. My hand welcomed the cool glass. I took a sip. As the water traveled down my esophagus, ice-cold relief smothered the unforgiving blaze coating my throat. I finished off the glass, setting it down with a faint ting. I gulped, and the judge in my head set their gavel aside, the drummer packed up and headed home for the night. 

Sheena went to the slim brown paper bag she had standing on the counter and reached in. She pulled out a bottle of red wine. She crumpled up the bag and tossed it in a plastic bin next to the fridge. Retrieving a corkscrew from her pocket, she drove the point of it into the cork as deep as it could go. She giggled to herself as she unscrewed it. 

“What?” I mused, in a tone coated with concern.

“I’m just,” She gave a comforted sigh, popping the cork, and cocking her head back to lock eyes with me. “So very, very happy that you called.” She grinned, pouring the wine into two stemmed glasses. “Y’know, this isn’t exactly the ideal prince charming fairy tale love story I imagined as a kid but I just can’t seem to quit you.” 

Uh oh. I thought. 

“I was afraid I’d scared you off.” She carried over the glasses. Setting one in front of me, she sat down in the chair on the other side of the table. Her free hand found its place delicately upon my own, her curious fingers gently exploring as they pleased.  “I know that I can come on a little strong.” She bit her lip with a wink. I jerked away defensively. 

“Look,” I pushed myself away from the table and stood up, collecting my thoughts. “I’m really sorry, and, like, I appreciate you clearly showing that you care and trying to help me out and all. I... I’m just really, really not okay right now. I honestly can’t remember who I am, or calling you, or what’s going on and I need to go to a hospital, talk to a doctor, or something I--.”

At this, all softness and warmth in her expression took a leave of absence. A heavy sting arose in my chest, a dirty, guilty sting. 

“You call me up in the middle of the night, telling me you need me and that you were wrong and that we can finally be together, and that you just want the chance to make it right?!” She jolted up to her feet, knocking over her chair, and slamming her hands on the table. “Well, I am done being lied to! I am done playing games and I am done being hurt by stupid, selfish little boys like you!” 

“Sheena, please,” I protested. “Believe me, I’m really not--!” I go silent and freeze like I’m standing back at the corner of that crosswalk. This time I found myself staring down the barrel of a .38 revolver. I reach my arms out to her, begging, pleading. I may not have been able to remember my life, but I still wanted to live it. 

No matter how hard she fought it, tears forced their way out from her eyes like riot police through a picket line.

“I loved you...” Her thumb cocks back the hammer with a click. Her curious finger squeezed the trigger. BOOM. A piercing white-hot flash erupts from her grip.  

I wake up screaming. Thunder booms and lightning blazes in the pitch-black sky beyond my window. Drenched in sweat, shellshocked, sitting upright in bed, muscles aching. My eyes anxiously explored my familiar unfamiliar surroundings. Stack of books, dusty XBOX, TCL Roku. I had no memory of who, how, when, where, or why I was here I just couldn’t remember, except--.

A knock beckoned me from the front door. “Joe?” A warm, gentle, loving voice. “Are you home?”

Every fiber in my being fought to tell me not to, but I got up to answer the door anyway...