Michael woke with a groan when his bedside clock blared its siren. His body ached in weird places and he couldn't remember exactly how he made his way home last night. The evening was a blur after his fifth glass of beer at the bar. Sixth? Seventh? There was that woman and giving her a car ride home but everything after that was fragmentary. Snatches of images and distorted sounds swam to the surface of his memory and then fled when he tried to latch on to them. He rolled over and sat up, slamming the clock to silence it. No time to think about it now -- it would come to him or it wouldn't but right now his headache was killing him. He ran his fingers through his hair, twisting his neck left and right. With another stretch he stood and nearly sat back down again. His body felt heavy and stupid. Fucking hung over and a rough night. He told himself as he made his way to the bathroom.
The warm shower helped tremendously. Michael stood with his back to it, feeling the warmth soak in. Soap and shampoo followed shortly after and he was soon toweling himself dry. His headache was slowly fading but when he looked in the mirror to shave, he was consumed by a sudden and intense wave of vertigo. He leaned forward immediately and gripped the sink to keep him steady. Raising his head to try again brought a fresh wave of nausea and cold sweat to go with the vertigo.
When the room stopped spinning, he reached for his toothbrush and fought the trembling in his hand to hold it steady. His mouth smelled like death and felt far worse. The nausea drained away while he scrubbed and was completely gone when he finished brushing. He left the bathroom without looking in the mirror, superstitiously believing he'd get sick again. He padded naked to the bedroom to quickly dress himself, adding a sweater over top. The morning seemed to be especially cold and, anyway, today was.... He paused. What was he doing today? Working in the field? That didn't feel right. Wasn't he in the office today? For something? He could feel the nausea building in his stomach and temples again. It was the office, he finally decided. His shift supervisor needed him to come in for paperwork. Of course that was it.
Once he remembered what he was doing, his head began to clear again. And a little bit of alcohol will chase the rest of that bullshit away. Michael made his way to his small kitchen, feeling the cold tile against his bare feet. He bit back a curse when he opened the fridge -- he was out of beer. The thought of a quick store run crossed his mind but quickly died when he glanced at the clock on the microwave. No time. Rushing, he grabbed his keys, umbrella and a small wad of cash from the end table by the couch.
His car was gone. Gone. Michael stood at the doorway looking out on the street. "Son of a fuckin' bitch." He whispered. "What the fuck did I do last night?" He walked around the property and then around the entire block. Nothing. No faded red Camaro sitting anywhere on the dark, rain-slick streets. I don't have time for this shit. Where was the... There. Fuck it. He walked the two blocks to the bus stop and waited. Fifteen minutes passed with his mood growing blacker and blacker. As hard as he tried, he couldn't remember anything from the previous night. I got the dumb bitch naked and we fucked. Where... where the hell did she live? No. Too far away from here. She was up near the lake. That's five goddamn miles away. No fucking way I walked back from that. The small white and green bus arrived while he was thinking. He was grinding his teeth and digging his nails painfully into the palms of his hands in a near rage - the car was all he had. The pneumatic bus doors hissed open and an older large black woman beamed at him. "Good morning!"
Michael grunted, barely concealing the snarl he wanted to make. No, it's not a fucking good morning, you dumb black bitch! The driver frowned as if she could hear this thoughts but he ignored her and walked to the back of the bus. He slammed down into the backseat with his arms spread out.
The rocking humming bus lulled him into sleep and he dozed briefly, head back and mouth open. There was an unending, dull gray featureless plain that stretched as far as he could see. He walked, slowly at first and then faster. Cold. Alone. No moon or sun in the sky. No noises. His footsteps made no noise and his voice was immediately swallowed by the unnaturally still air. A feeling of dread permeated his entire being. And, while he was entirely alone, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched -- of someone looking over his shoulder. Someone that wished him harm. Michael snapped awake with a start, heart hammering in his throat. His nausea threatened to creep back and it twisted rusty screws into his temples.
He needed out. After his dream, the bus felt like a tomb. Too small. Too constricted. Everything around him was skewed with the sickness in his head and stomach. Shadows turned into crawling spiders and scuttling cockroaches in the corner of his eyes. The other passengers leered at him, laughing cruelly. He swore a woman near the middle of his bus looked exactly like his sister and he caught her glaring accusingly at him before she looked away. The driver's face contorted into a sneer and he knew she was just driving in circles to keep him contained. Michael gripped the metal bar in front of him, breathing shallow and fast.
When the back doors finally opened at the stop, he ran out. A pain below his knee made him stumble against the door in his rush to be out of the hellish place. The crisp, cold air seared his lungs and he pulled in deep lungfuls of it. People walking on the sidewalk gave him wide berth, whispering about him when they thought they were out of earshot. His stomach heaved and when nothing came up, he hawked out a sour wad of clear spit. His body felt heavy and awkward again. Michael leaned against the pole by the bus stop until everything passed and he could trust himself to walk straight. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he walked the few blocks to his company's head office. He focused on every step along the way, eyes on the ground as he swayed slightly.
The receptionist nodded a brisk 'Good morning' to him when he entered the office. She was young and blonde, very professional with her hair held up by black lacquered chopsticks and her dark business suit fitting tightly. Black skirt with a white silk top and a black jacket. Normally he'd take the time to chat with the lady but it was a measure of how he felt that he simply nodded with his eyes averted. Too many people looking at him and judging him. He made his way to the back, threading through the small maze of cubicles until he found the one he used. He sat and withdrew into himself. Everything was off kilter. Since this morning, everything was wrong. Except, no. Since the bar last night. The woman. That ugly bag of... His head shifted again. Everything around him tilted forty-five degrees while he broke out into a cold sweat. Why can't I remember? What happened lalst night? Who the fuck...
"...ily? Lilly!"
Michael looked up from this desk at the old man standing near the opening of the cubicle. A ring of thin white hair trailed down to a short, well-kept gray beard. Hazel eyes behind round, thin wire frame glasses. The man, looking all the world like a junior sized Santa Claus, watched her with authentic concern.
"Are you all right, Lily?" He asked.
"I..."
