24 hour service

Task – something about a letter or related


GregW © 20/8/2010



24 hour service.



SHIT! Shit shit shit.

What the hell was that? Arrgh! My head!

It’s still bloody dark.

I fumble for the alarm, hit the snooze button, no, wasn’t the alarm.

Gawd, it’s 3:23.

I know it happens like this. You wake from a stupor convinced there’s a noise but not knowing if it was a dream or if someone’s breaking down the door.

I fall back onto my pillow, last night’s excess is sloshing through my brain.

It settles down into a thumping that I know will turn into a bloody good reason not to want daylight. Why do I do this to myself?

But right now. Why am I awake?

Oh yeah, that noise. I try to remember what I heard, I try a sort of dull mental replay. Problem is, the thing I am using to remember with, well, it isn’t up to doing much.

The thumping in my head slows to a sick pulse. I move slightly to ease the pain. Nope. That doesn’t work.

I think it sounded like a crash or something.

Oh bugger! What if someone has broken into the place?. Shit.

I hold my breath and try and push every sense to my ears for super-human hearing .

All I hear is the smashing of my heart into my head.

Then a quick panic, was that a noise? No. That wasn’t a sound, I listen again, quiet for ages, not a creak, not a swish, not a tap, a rasp, nothing. Even the window-scraping branch outside hangs motionless.

Christ my head hurts, huge bloody ache. I feel like I’m going to pass out, oh, what is going on? My mouth gasps a breath. Oh,,, oh that’s better, god, I forgot to breathe, how smashed am I?

I relax back into my pillow, but that sound replays again and again in my mind, now I recognize it, I think.

I move my head and a flood of ache and nausea swells and stops me thinking.

I lay still, .

Breathing shallow, I convince myself there really are no more noises.

So what was that bloody noise, I’m sure I know it, it had a metallic, a double clunk sort of, it’s familliar, what is it? Something else too, a sound of something dropping, something light but stiff. Like a tea bag into a cup, or, an envelo..,,,, . A fucking Envelope! That was it. Some bastard has shot an envelope through my mail slot!

At 3 in the morning!

Dickhead.

Oh Christ my head!

What a relief though. A bloody letter, bugger me.

I feel a calm slowly descend through the ache behind my eyes.

I feel the softness of the pillow again. I do like my pillow. Nice pillow. nice p….

Who the fuck would be delivering a letter at 3am?

Hang on. Was it a letter or a firework? Can I smell a fuse?, petrol?

I almost sit up but the dumping of what feels like four tons of hot lead into my eyes drops me to motionless recovery. As I regain control from my torrent of pain, there is no fire, no petrol, nothing but my stale stench of booze, sweat and panic.

So it was just a letter I suppose.

Still, a letter, 3 oclock, a mystery, a puzzle,,,, a nice pillow, such a nice pillow.

Hang on, now I’m feeling ill….aawwhhaa…afloat on a sea ..No, no, … It’ll pass, don’t have to move. It’ll be alright, I’ll be fine. Oh god why do I do this to myself,

I reach out blind and scrabble through the mess on my side table, fingers feeling for some Rennies, nah, fags, no, condoms, oh, a beer, no, ashtray, ,,,oh bugger it, I’ll be okay. I’ll just lie here…. very still,, on my…. back…. and…. Szzs sczzsc ssnncczzsc.



Aw, my throat, cough, ca-ow!

What the?

Oh yeah.

Damn.

What time is it!? Daytime something. The clock, hm, 9:52. morning.

Which one I wonder,

Can, gotta go to the can, busting. Oh that’s not good. Sitting up – bad move. Gotta go though. Feet not working proper, bump doorway, bruised my shoulder, sit down for a pee, my head in my hands, elbows on knees . A horrible wave of internal sloshing passing through my body, this piss is taking ages, maybe I just doze off here for a little while.

My head falls off my hand and I jolt up, a jackhammer explodes into the back of my eyes. Oh gawd, none of this is good.

I drag the bathrobe from the hook, manage to wash my face and hands.

Now desperate for a coffee and a fag.

plod to the stairs and brace myself, step by cautious step down the banister.

And there it is, propped at an angle, it’s narrow edge on the floor, leaning back against the door.

For ever such a small while I look at it perplexed, a jet2 ticket folder. Hmmm. I’m debating if it’s worth the pain of reaching down.



Then a massive and sudden injection of adrenaline and recollection.

Stunned like a dear in headlights I stare , the ticket now resting there gruesomely. Mocking. I don’t want to look at it.

I can’t move, too many things are crashing together trying to find working bits in my brain.

Brain can’t cope.

Wedding.

Paris.

Airport an hour away,

no cab booked,

flight’s at 11:30 I think.

Oh shit. Shit shit shit shit .

(acknowledgement to Richard Curtis/4 weddings and a funeral script, opening scene.

I only noticed re-reading what I just wrote, how close it is to the beginning of that movie,  funny the influences one absorbs)