This is using the writing prompt "What if tatoos just radomly appeared on our skin at key points in our lives and we had to figure out what they meant?" submitted by notverysuperdean
Neil awoke one Sunday afternoon after a night of heavy drinking with a pounding headache. This was a hangover to put all other hangovers to shame. He could barely open his eyes, let alone raise his torso from his bed. He slowly and with great effort rolled over. Once on his side, Neil counted to ten.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven--
Before his thoughts could turn to eight the bed began shaking.
From somewhere directly below him, Neil heard a groan. It wasn't so much that the words this is odd formed in Neil's mind, as the emotion of surprise and the acknowledgment of oddity flicked through his brain, like a stranger passing him on the sidewalk. He strained to open his eyes, and through the two slits he saw a room. But it was not his room. These were not his walls. His walls were not magenta. Squinting downwards towards the area from which the noise had come, he was surprised and rather pleased, and then surprised at himself for being pleased, to find himself several yards from the floor. And this was not his floor, though by this time, Neil was not surprised by this.
No, this floor was all wrong. It was entirely too shiny, for one thing. For another, much too brown. His own floor, at his studio apartment on Elm Street, was clad in beige carpet.
He remembered the noise. And once more examined the area directly below himself. It was, in fact, a bottom bunk. Then-- was this the top then, apparently? His eyes began opening a bit more, in a tentative fashion, testing the optical waters for the possibly pain that goes hand-in-hand with alcohol withdrawal. Low to medium pain! It would appear to be a quick recovery! He took a gander at a vocalization:
H-- His vocal chords strained at the attempt. H-- H-- H-- Hello. He finally, with much difficulty, got out. Hello down there.
After waiting several minutes for the reply that did not come, Neil decided that another attempt was warranted.
Hello! He said with far more certainty and much less throat pain than the first time. My name is Neil. Might I ask you your name?
After several more minutes of no reply, Neil decided to heave his aching body from the top bed of the loft and down the rungs of the latter, which he scaled with much difficulty and many grunts. Having landed on the much too shiny, brown floor that was not his, he surveyed the bottom bunk.
A tuft of brown hair was all that was visible of his bunk-mate, emerging, as it was, from a light blue comforter. He was able to ascertain from the rise and fall of the blue lump that this human was, in fact, alive.
A sense of decency and an intense itching, almost bordering on pain, of his right forearm, caused him to stop further investigation as to the identity of the owner of the tuft of brown hair, and head into what he thought must be the hallway.
He padded through the dark corridor, not noticing much of anything except for the sensation, which was growing in intensity, and the spongy feeling of carpet under his socks. But mostly the itching. In fact, he nearly cracked his head on the wall when the hallway made an unexpected turn without him.
But somehow he made it safely into a room that appeared almost kitchen-like.
Wait-- he thought. Yes. This is a kitchen.
He could tell because of the refrigerator, standing regally on the far wall. It was in the act of tipping an imaginary hat to said appliance that it occurred to him that he might still be drunk.
The itching, which had lulled a bit, was now apparently making up for lost time. Neil's eyes teared in pain. He wrenched his gaze away from the tall and stately fridge and yanked at the sleeve of his sweater, hearing a few threads rip in the process.
No word exist to fully describe the feelings Neil felt when he found what he found on his left forearm. But if there were, it would be some combination of astonishment, fear, and unsure fondness and then surprise at this fondness. And then a return trip back to fear.
It would appear that he had gotten a tattoo while drunk the night before, for there was an etching there. The exact scene that had graced his vision once he had landed on the floor that was not his: the blue comforter, lump and all. Very small, quite tasteful. He could easily hide it. It probably wouldn't even cost much to get it removed.
But how had he gotten the tattoo of the comforter he had not yet seen?
Submitted October 07, 2014 at 06:57AM by a818 http://ift.tt/1s5wYPC fiction
No comments:
Post a Comment