Morning
During the night some mischief maker had snuck in and glued my left eyelid shut. Presumably the same person was responsible for fastening my tongue to the roof of my mouth. “Ak,” I said, in an effort to dislodge it. “Ak, ak, ak…”
I surveyed the room warily with my functioning eye. The walls were a dusky pink. Somewhere a clock was ticking. A dressing table, too large for the room, butted up against the foot of the bed. It’s mirror was covered over, somewhat disturbingly, by my jeans and the top I remembered wearing last. I could make out my underwear bunched up below them. I didn’t recognise the room.
Slowly, painfully slowly, I turned on my side. My hand swam into view, my fingers curling into my palm. My fingernails looked very very pink and very very white, like a picture of fingernails. I looked at them for a long time. Eventually, I moved my fingers, just to check they really did belong to me. My hand felt stiff and sore. I turned it over. What was that stuff across my knuckles?
Instinctively I drew my hand to my mouth and pushed it against my dry tongue. It took a while to register, but my initial suspicions were confirmed. Blood. There was blood on my hand. I slipped it down between my legs quickly and pulled it back up. It was hot and sticky, but not with blood.
My tongue was large in my mouth and making it difficult to breathe. My nose seemed completely blocked. I put my hand up to my face again, peeling my left eyelid open. There was suddenly more blood. I touched my hand against my nose and cheek. There was blood on my face. And yes, I looked, blood on the pillow, soaked through. No wonder my hair had felt wet.
I let out a low moan, nausea rising in me. I struggled up onto my elbows and peered over the side of the bed. There was already a small pool of vomit there, crusting and staining. I turned away, breathing heavily with my eyes closed until I felt well enough to sit up. I swung my legs down and sat naked on the edge of the strange bed. I wondered if I should try standing. I wondered why there was blood on my face.
“You fell.”
I drew in my breath sharply and turned slowly. He had been in the room all along, sat to my left, in an armchair by the bed.
“You were drunk and you fell. You were hurt. I brought you here.”
“I’ve been sick on your carpet,” I managed.
“I know,” he said.