Flash Fiction Friday, so I will be conducting a bit of fictional writing here on my blog, hopefully every friday. Partly to cut off from all the ordinary stuff, and partly to open up my creative thinking a little more. Here goes:
He looked around, waking up with yet again one them hazy feelings.
”Where am I?” he thought slowly, soon to realize that this time he was actually home in his own bed. It had been another crazy night lastnight, he guessed, since he didn’t remember anything. He had started to wonder why he kept getting these horrible blackouts with no recollection at all of where he’d been for more than a few days. Life used to be good, and he used to know who he was, where he’d been, who he’d met. Heck, if he’d even met anyone or just stayed at home.
”Good thing I work from home, with only deadlines to keep” He hadn’t missed any of them, yet, and no important meetings with any of his clients, so far so good.
He was strong headed and way too proud to go to the doctor. Even though he didn’t have anyone else insisting he should go, he had a nagging feeling that something might be worse than he could imagine.
He got out of bed and into the bathroom. He, as he always does in the morning, picked up his brush and brushed his long hair, getting out every last knot of it. Long well kept hair.
He looked himself in the mirror in the bathroom, looked closely at himself. Watching himself he could see that he’d been ageing, realizing he had not experienced even half of his life lately.
– ”What the fuck is wrong with you!” he screamed as he smashed his left fist into the mirror. Stunned he looked at the mirror, then looked at his knuckles, now bleeding. The rage had gone away, as soon as his fist had broken the mirror. It had nothing to do with having broken the mirror, nothing to do with having broken his skin on his knuckles and nothing to do with the blood now slowly finding its way out if the cuts.
It was the shock, that did it, the shock of having gotten violent. Gotten so enraged that he broke something. He had always been such a calm boy, never hurting himself or anyone else.
Looking at his knuckles, he didn’t feel the need to clean the cuts. He kept watching the blood drip from his hand down into the sink. The red color against the white, slowly running down the drain.
– ”You will be my war wounds, I will carry you as a memory of what I’m not.” he said out loud, like he was proclaiming it to the world, so that they would know.