The Morning After

            The Morning After

                                                           

                                                A Short Story By

                                               

Kevin Emile Massing

I wake up to the chilly sensation that can only be experienced after a night of sleeping drenched in your own sweat. I’ve had the dream every night for the past 15 months and not once has the vividness of these awful images dimmed in my mind’s eye.

            I close my eyes and sit up. With my head resting on my forearms, which in turn are rested on my knees, I take deep breaths until my heartbeat slows and my mind clears. I have no idea how long this takes, but it seems to me that it takes a little longer every day.

            Once calm, my senses begin to function again and I am reminded of the cold puddle I am sitting in, which I am now certain cannot be sweat. Upon opening my eyes, my calm state is obliterated with the mortar-like force of panic and realization. One that causes a chill to crawl up and down my spine; making this morning’s prior one to feel as pleasant as walking through a mist tunnel at an amusement park.

            I am sharing this sweat and piss riddled bed with the corpse of what once was a beautiful young woman; body taut yet twisted, like some kind of warped 2x4.

            The next thing I know I’m up to my chin in porcelain, every fluid I have spewing from my mouth with the viciousness of a Yellowstone geyser. There is neither a tear left in my eyes nor any mucus left in my nose. Rather, it has all gathered on my face and somehow my hands.

            I decide that the tub would be the best place to clean myself off.

            Bad Idea.

            An unforeseen round two erupts from my esophagus and lands with a splash at the bottom of the tub. Great, as if I hadn’t made a big enough mess here already.

            I clean myself off and venture out into the common area of the apartment to see if any of her roommates are awake. I doubt anyone could have slept through guttural performance I just put on in the restroom. I scan the living and dining rooms quickly as they are technically the same room. I walk into the kitchen.

            All Clear.

            My heart is seemingly trying to escape my chest and its rampant beating is only worsened by the turbulence brought by what my eyes show me next.

            Three doors. Her room, the bathroom, and one last unanswered question at the end of the hall.

            By the time I reach the door my palms are saturated. I reach my left arm out towards the knob slowly. The sun shines in from her bedroom window on my right, reflecting light on the doorknob and my glistening hand alike. At my left rolls a stagnant wave of putrid air from the bathroom. I almost throw up again.

            I reel in a deep breath, grab the handle, and yank the door open. I’m instantly hit in the face by some flying object.

            Shit.

            My eyes well up with more tears that I don’t want but can’t control. Mucus has announced it’s triumphant return to my nose and is leaking down to my mouth. Whatever the hell that was just hit me square in the eye. Momentarily disoriented, I still manage to get my non-throbbing right eye open enough to see the face of my object-tossing adversary. I’m startled into laughter by what I see.

            It’s a closet.

            Nothing but a damned linen closet. I now realize that perhaps I opened the door a bit to feverishly, which caused a belt to fly off the hook on the inside of the door and hit me in the face. I stare at the belt on the floor and shake my head.

            My breathing begins to slow down and with that my brain appears to have returned from its brief hiatus. Suddenly a feeling rushes over me that I can best describe as the one a procrastinating college student gets when he finds out his midterm has been pushed back a week.

            I now have some time. No idea what to do with it, but it’s there nonetheless. This is good. I need time right now like a man on death row needs it, and if I don’t put my time to good use, that’s exactly where I’ll end up.

            No need to trying to search for clues of my innocence. What a colossal waste of my valued time that would be. I already know I did it and honestly, I already know why. Countless times in the past year I’ve hovered over the pipe, breath thick with whiskey, thinking about doing this or something like this. Envisioning the way I would prove my point to the nation, even the world, but especially to her.

            I forcefully shake my head. Such thoughts are I waste of my time. I already solved the ‘whodunit’ mystery, what I need to remember is how. And who was with me, who saw the two of us together last night. I have to cover all my tracks and determine if there is anyway to buy myself some more time.

            I’m no fool; there is only one possible outcome for this story, and it features me sitting in the human bug zapper in front of a room of my peers.

            Time. I have to find a way to give myself even more of it.

  My hand has been forced. Maybe in my blacked out state, my drunken subconscious did what it knew I would never have been able to do myself.  Maybe I will be able to get my message across after all.

            Maybe, Maybe, Maybe.

            I’m getting ahead of myself again dammit; I need to focus only on one thing. Last night. I need to start from the beginning if I’m going to find the things I need to find. I can’t even remember going out last night. The last thing I remember was sitting in my living room..